POHN ANDERSON, my jo,' John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo!
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John;
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
OFT of voice and light of hand
As the fairest in the land-
Who can rightly understand
My Love, Annie ?
Simple in her thoughts and ways,
True in every word she says,-
Who shall even dare to praise
My Love, Annie?
'Midst a naughty world, and rude,
Never in ungentle mood;
Never tired of being good-
My Love, Annie.
Hundreds of the wise and great
Might o'erlook her meek estate;
But good angels on her wait
My Love, Annie.
Many or few the loves that may
Shine upon her silent way,-
God will love her night and day,
My Love, Annie.
ITTLE pink toes high in air,
Belonging to our baby fair,
Cooing to them merrily,
Playing with them joyously,
Happy in his infant way
Is our child at break of day.
In our hearts, sweet baby sounds
Wake the love which there abounds;
And we know him, morn and night,
Our blessing, joy, and sweet delight;
A gift from God, bright, fresh, and sure,
To keep our hearts true, warm, and pure.
Little terrors, through the day,
Through our happy hearts may stray,
Or the work and care of life
Make us weary of its strife;
Then our rosy, prattling boy
Brings back our hearts to love and joy.
and all so weary,
Draw we to the fireside cheery,
And where its light most brightly glows,
Hold outstretched the baby's toes;
His face is full of love and glee,
His winning ways are joy to see.
He ever fills our life with joy,
Our blesséd, winsome baby boy;
For him we hope, for him we live,
For him we pray the Lord to give
Daily bread; and strength to make
Fit to give, and fit to take.
Our home's a humble little cot,
And humble think we is our lot;
But God's best blessings us infold,
While still within our arms we hold
Each other, and our marriage joy,·
Our loving, winsome baby-boy.
Such gifts the Lord doth make our own, To teach us of another home,
Where parent love, and marriage bliss, Shall far exceed the joy of this;
And happy, happier far shall be,
That home to all eternity.
Y place is in the quiet vale,
The chosen haunt of simple thought;
I seek not Fortune's flattering gale,
I love the peaceful lot.
I leave the world of noise and show,
To wander by my native brook;
I ask, in life's unruffled flow,
No treasure but my friend and book.
These better suit the tranquil home,
Where the clear water murmurs by;
And if I wish a while to roam,
I have an ocean in the sky.
Fancy can charm and feeling bless
With sweeter hours than Fashion knows;
There is no calmer quietness
Than Home around the bosom throws.
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