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SONGS FOR GIRLHOOD.
The fox - glove shoots out of the green matted heather,
And hangeth her hoods of snow; She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather:
Oh, children take long to grow!
I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,
Nor long summer hide so late; And I could grow on like the fox-glove and aster,
For some things are ill to wait.
I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head:
" The child is a woman, the hook may close over, For all the lessons are said."
I wait for my story�the hirds can not sing it;
Not one, as he sits on the tree: The hells can not ring it; but long years, oh, bring it!
Such as I wish it to be.
I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
When sitting on that biuk, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loot,
What our wee heads could think ? When baith bent down ower ae braid page,
Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, bnt
My lesson was in thee.
Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads,
How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans laughing said
We cleeked thegither hame ? And miud ye o' the Saturdays�
The scule then skail't at noon� When we ran off to speel the braes,
The broomy braes o' June ?
My head rins round and round about,
My heart flows like a sea, As ane by aue the thochts rush back,
O' scule-time and o' thee. O mornin' life ! O morniu' lnve !
O lichtsome days and lang! When hinnied hopes around our heart*
Like simmer blossoms sprang.
Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome town, To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon ? The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throstle whusslit sweet;
The throstle whusslit in the wood,
The burn sung to the trees, And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe aboon the burn
For hours thegither sat In the silentuess o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.
Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled down your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time,
When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth,
I've wandered east, I've wandered west,
Through mony a weary way; But never, never can forget
The luve o' life's young day.' The tire that's blawn on Beltane e'en
May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond love grows cule.
O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison !
The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my e'en wi' tears: They blind my e'en wi' saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up
The blithe blinks o' langsyne.
'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,
Twas then we twa did part. Sweet time ! sad time ! Twa bairns at scule,
Twa bairns, and but ae heart! 'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,
To leir ilk ither lear; And tones and looks and smiles were shed,