62

MY OWN FIRESIDE.

My own fireside! Those simple words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,

And fill with tears of joy mine eyes.
What is there my wild heart can prize,
That doth not in thy sphere abide,
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies,
My own
my own fireside?

A gentle form is near me now;

A small white hand is clasped in mine: I gaze upon her placid brow,

And ask, What joys can equal thine? A babe, whose beauty 's half divine, In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide; Where may love seek a fitter shrine Than thou, my own fireside?

What care I for the sullen war

Of winds without, that ravage earthIt doth but bid me prize the more The shelter of thy hallowed hearth; To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth: Then let the churlish tempest chide, It cannot check the blameless mirth That glads my own fireside!

Thy precincts are a charméd ring, Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; Where life's vexations lose their sting; Where even grief is half subdued;

MY OWN FIRESIDE.

And peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. Then let the world's proud fool deride; I'll pay my debt of gratitude

Shrine of my household duties!

Bright scene of home's unsullied joys! To thee my burdened spirit flies,

When Fortune frowns, or Care annoys, Thine is the bliss that never cloys;

63

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried; What then are this world's tinsel toys, my own fireside!

To thee

O, may the yearnings, fond and sweet,
That bid my thoughts be all of thee,
Thus ever guide my wandering feet
To thy heart-soothing sanctuary!
Whate'er my future years may be,
Let joy or grief my fate betide,
Be still an Eden bright to me,
My own my own fireside!

Alaric A. Watts.

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD,

MY JEANIE.

HOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, By that pretty white hand o' thine, And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, That thou wad aye be mine!

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,

By a' the stars sown thick o'er heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine!

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,

An' the heart that wad part sic love! But there's nae hand can loose the band

Save the finger o' God above.

Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my bield, An' my claithing e'er sae mean,

I wad lap me up rich i' the folds o' love, Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean.

THOU HAST SWORN, MY JEANIE. 65

Her white arm would be a pillow to me, Fu' safter than the down,

An' Love wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings,

An' sweetly I'd sleep and soun'.

Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,
Come here, and kneel wi' me;

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,
An' I canna pray but thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindly an' hie,

Our gude-man leans owre the kail-yard dike, An' a blithe auld body is he.

The Beok maun be taen when the carle comes hame,

Wi' the holie psalmodie,

An thou maun speak o' me to thy God,
And I will speak o' thee!

Allan Cunningham.

THE FATHER'S KNEE.

HAPPY is the mother

Of each little pet,

Who has a happy father,

By the fire set,

With one wee tottum sleeping

'Neath its mother's e'e,
Another tottum creeping
Up its father's knee,
Aye rocking, rocking,
Aye rocking, ree-
Pulling at his stocking,
Climbing up his knee.

Though our wee bit housie

Few there be that know,

Happy we and cosie,

Round about it go.