Hark! Hark!

Thou merry Lark!

Reckless thou how I may pine;
Let Love, tyrant, work his will,
Plunging me in anguish still :
Whatsoe'er

May be my care,

True shall bide this heart of mine.

Hark! Hark!

Thou merry Lark!

Reckless thou what griefs are mine; Come, relieve my heart's distress, Though in truth the pain is less,

That she frown,

Than if unknown

She for whom I ceaseless pine.

Hark! Hark!

Thou merry Lark!

Reckless thou how I may pine.

2 K

ON SHOOTING A MOOR-HEN OFF HER NEST BY MISTAKE.

THY droopit wing anes cheerful flew,
Naw cauld and wat wi' nightly dew,

Poor murder'd thing;

As fate drew near, the wind did sigh,

And dreary sing.

Then thought some lavrock cam to rest,
That might aside thy peaceful nest,

In safety sweet ;

Or, that it was the wind that pass'd,

On sightless feet.

But, oh! it was nae lavrock sweet.

That nod by thee wi' tender feet

The dewy grun';

But, oh! it was relentless fate,

The mortal gun.

Thy eggs are cauld, and wat, and dead,
And by them lies thy peaceful head,

In death's last sleep.

I saw thee limping to thy bed,

To mourn and weep.

Thou kept them frae the wind and rain,
But a' thy cares and hopes were vain,

Which thou possest;

Baith bird and eggs are dead and gane,

To endless rest.

When thou did'st live, puir murder'd thing,

Ilk dewy morn on whirring wing,

Exulting sprang;

Then gae'd the moors and mosses ring

Wi' thy glad sang.

Thy mate sits by thee, yet alane,
He little thinks that thou art gane

To life's last goal;

For still he makes his woeful mane,

To cheer thy soul.

The muirland herd was oft thy fear,
As he thy haunts did wander near,
At even dark;

Nae mair the foxes' yelp thou'lt hear,

Or colly bark.

The little humble daisy smiled,

Wi' cheerfu' face, sae meek and mild,

Now drops a tear;

The heather bush waves wae and wild,

Forlorn and drear.

Ah, me! mayhap, in yonder vale,
Some orphan lives to weep and wail,

From hope outcast;

And, shiv'ring, tells his woeful tale

Unto the blast.

E'en like to thine the orphan's lot,
His name and place shall be forgot,

In silent gloom;

The dreary winds shall hold their route

Out o'er his tomb.

Here, rest in peace, receive a tear,

The mighty heron's cry I hear,

The dark comes fast;

The spark in yonder cot looks drear,

Adieu! and rest.

THE GOLDFINCH.

Bietmar.

THERE sat upon the linden-tree
A bird, and sang its strain;
So sweet it sang, that, as I heard,
My heart went back again.
It went to one remember'd spot,

It saw the rose-trees grow,

And thought again the thoughts of love There cherish'd long ago.

A thousand years to me it seems

Since by thy face I sate,

Yet thus t' have been a stranger long

Was not my choice, but fate:

Since then I have not seen the flowers,

Nor heard the bird's sweet song;

My joys have all too briefly past,

My griefs been all too long.