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The parting words shall pass my lips no¡ (And thou wast happier than myself the

more!

while,

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my
concern,

Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived;
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and
went,

Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er
forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard

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Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,)—

Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart, — the dear delight

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. But no,-what here we call our life is such,

So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain

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WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;

But higher far my proud pretensions rise,

The son of parents passed into the skies. And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked,

has run

His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again, To have renewed the joys that once were mine

Without the sin of violating thine;
And while the wings of Fancy still are
free,

And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his
theft,
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me

left.

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MYSTERIES OF PROVIDENCE.

GOD moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines

Of never-failing skill, He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence

He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,

And scan his works in vain; God is his own interpreter,

And he will make it plain.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

[1734-1788.]

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?

Mak haste, lay by your wheel; Is this the time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?

71

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';
There's little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie to me my bigonet,

My bishop's satin gown; For I maun tell the baillie's wife

That Colin's in the town. My Turkey slippers maun gae on, My stockings pearly blue; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,

For he 's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;
Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;
It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he 's been lang awa'.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop,
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;
And mak our table neat and clean,
Let everything look braw,
For wha can tell how Colin fared
When he was far awa'?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, In troth I'm like to greet!

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind, That thirled through my heart,

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