Sweet Polly, dear Polly, wee Polly mine!
There's a kind, kind eye
Keeping watch in the sky,
Though the sun hath ceased to shine.
Then close thy sleepy e'e
Like the gowan on the lee,
For shades of the evening fall,
And hush thee to rest
On thy own mother's breast,
For the Father he loveth us all.
Dear Polly, wee Polly, sweet Polly mine!
There's a kind, kind eye
Keeping watch in the sky,
Though the sun hath ceased to shine.
LINES TO A POETIC FRIEND IN SORROW
ON CHRISTMAS MORN.
This morn, to love and friendship dear,
So sad to thee this closing year,
This morn to thee I dedicate,
To thee and to thy faithful mate,
Who, on this day of Jesus Christ,
With sorrow keepeth mournful tryst,
Beside the moaning ocean wave,
By dear wee Milly's early grave.
The boundless sea is like thy pain,
It ebbs and flows, and comes again,
As fond rememb'rance restless strays
O'er all her winsome childish ways,-
The words, the looks, the nameless grace,-
That lately filled thy dwelling-place;
But He who holds the waves in thrawl,
The Mighty One, the All in All,
Can still the tempest of thy grief
And bring thy tortured soul relief.
Ah, dear! my friends, who e'er can know
The mystery of thy mortal woe?
With anguished minds we pray, we strive
To save the loved ones alive;
And hard it is to kiss the hand
That leads them to the better land,
And sore for flesh and blood to thole
The rending of the heart and soul;
But this I must and this thou must,
And give our dearest to the dust.
Who knows what pale-faced sorrow means,
Cold gliding through life's various scenes?
This moment withering hopes elate,
That blossomed in the highest state;
The next, in Poet's humble shed,
Bent tearful o'er his youthful dead!
No voice in nature e'er betrays
The secret of the Father's ways;
No whisper yet was ever heard,
Not even by inspiréd bard,
To tell why fairest things should die,
And tears bedim affection's eye,
Or give poor hope one slender path
Across the mirksome stream of death.
But through the ages, dim and far,
Shines forth one peerless, radiant star,
That now, with still-increasing light,
Illumes the darkness of our night:
This morn beheld that star ascend,
To set no more till time shall end,-
A symbol bright of love divine,
Immortal life for thine and mine.
Dear friend, these thoughts thy heart imbue,
These thoughts thy faith and hope renew;
So may this grief a blessing prove,
Through God the Father's boundless love.
DOWAGER LADY LISTON FOWLIS,
IDOW of the late Sir William Liston Fowlis, Bart., of Colinton, contributes both in prose and verse to several of our magazines. The Messrs Parlane, Paisley, have issued numerous "leaflets and little books by Lady Fowlis, and these have enjoyed a wide popularity--" Pilgrim Songs from Bunyan," (arranged in the order of the beautiful story), in particular having been very extensively circulated. In a note to this little book, the author says "Most of these Pilgrim songs were written at odd times, while studying "The Pilgrim's Progress with a Bible Class of young women. They do not lay claim to poetic merit, far less exhaustive treatment, but were written in order to impress upon the minds of my young friends some of the spiritual lessons taught from the wonderful allegory."
Lady Fowlis is a pure, graceful, and pleasant writer. She has devoted the muse to a high purpose -teaching us to live "soberly, righteously, and godly." Her hymns show delicate and sweet fancy, a sensitive ear for the melody of words, a cultured imagination, and considerable power of expression.
As morn by morn the sun arose,
Far o'er the deep blue tide,
Shedding a golden pathway there,
Where angel feet might glide;
There rose a lark on joyous wing,
Singing, as still he flies,
His morning song of praise to Him
Who made the earth and skies.
Meanwhile, down by yon fisher's cot,
You'd see his busy hand
Mending the nets, while yet the tide
Steals slowly up the strand :
Each morning finds him at the task
He knows and plies so well;
And as he works, he hears the lark
Whose notes with rapture swell.
It is an echo in his heart-
An arrow winged with love?
He stops his work, and gazes up-
Up to the sky above.
"My bonnie birdie, ilka morn
Ye sing yer blythesome lay,
While ne'er a sang o' praise I gie
To Him wha guides my way.
Aye! I hae clean forgotten Him
To whom ye gie the praise;
Though he's sae mindfu' aye o' me
For a' my wilfu' ways.
"Twas but yest're'en I saw the tempest lour,
And thocht o' Nelly, and the bairnies four-
Thocht how they'd greet, if never, never mair
They'd see the faither in his ain bit chair!
Aye, what a sicht was Nelly's watery e'e,
Wi' Robbie in her arms sae fu' o' glee;
When as the wind cam' swoopin' owre the wol',
The boat was anchored safe in Lucky's hole.
Aye, but yon lav'rock there has smote my heart-
I ne'er in sang o' praise ha'e ta'en a part-
I ne'er ha'e thankit Him nor praised His name,
Wha gar'd the awsome waves to guide me hame;
I e'en maun try, like yon blithe birdie there,
To raise a mornin' sang and evenin' prayer.
Sae ilka day I'll praise and bless His name,
Wha sent the birdie wi' this message hame.
Aye yonder's Nelly wi' the bairn,
As blithe as blithe can be,
Singin' like ony lav'rock
Abune the grassy lea.
'Atweel, gudewife, yon lav'rock's sang
Has brocht my sin to mind,
We ne'er ha'e praised nor blessed the Lord
Wha's been sae gude and kind-
We ne'er hae thocht o' Him ava',
Nor seen His lovin' hand in a'.
Sae, let us read His Word, gudewife,
Wha bade the storm be still,
And teach our bairnies, as they grow,
To do His holy will;
Let's teach them in the morn to sing,
Like to the lav'rock there,
A lilt o' praise unto the King,
Wha made them a' sae fair.
I mind my mither tellin' me
He gi'ed His Son to dee,
That in death's gloamin' we micht sing
A sang o' victory.
Let's gi'e our hearts to Him, Nelly,
Wha lo'd us a' sae weel;
Then like the lav'rock we will sing,
While yet we mind the creel."
"Gudeman, your words mak' glad my heart, For 'twas but yesternicht
I cried in my puir way to Him,
Wha hauds a' power and micht,
That He wad bring ye safe, Willie-
Safe through the storm to me,
That ance mair I micht see ye
Wi' the bairnies on your knee.
We'll thank Him baith thegither, Will,
We'll learn the bairns to sing;
And ilka morn and e'en we'll pray
To Him, our Lord and King."
A voice has reached us from the Skerries, Across the dark and stormy ferries,
Telling of famine of the Word,
Of Sacrament, and service heard.
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