There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.
Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in't
As he comes up the stair.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought;
In troth, I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa',
Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content;
I ha'e nae mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak' him blest,
I'm blest aboon the lave.
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth, I'm like to greet.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.
He gave me look!-the first of these two
When we were lost in Cliefden woods to
Ah, what happy times we spent, we two! I don't count that unfaithfulness to you.
Beautiful children, in robes so fair,
Are carolling songs in rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me,
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering and nothing to eat?
Oh, what shall I do when the night comes down
In its terrible blackness all over the town? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold hard pavement alone to die, When the beautiful children their prayers have said,
And mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed?
No dear mother ever upon me smiled:
Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child?
No father, no mother, no sister, not one
In all the world, loves me; e'en the little dogs
And tells me of such unbounded love,
And bids me come up to their home above,
And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise,
They look at me with their sweet blue eyes,
And it seems to me out of the dreary night
I'm going up to the world of light,
And away from the hunger and storms so
wild:
I am sure I shall then be somebody's child.
Her aged hand on his strong young arm
She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,
He guided the trembling feet along,
Proud that his own were young and strong.
Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content:
"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow,
And some one, some time, may lend a hand
To help my mother-you understand?—
If ever she's poor and old and gray,
And her own dear boy so far away."
"Somebody's mother" bowed low her head prayer
HE woman was old and ragged and In her home that night, and the
gray,
And bent with the chill of a winter's day;
The streets were white with a recent snow,
And the woman's feet with age were slow.
At the crowded crossing she waited long,
Jostled aside by the careless throng
Of human beings, who passed her by
Unheeding the glance of her anxious eye.
Was, "God be kind to that noble boy,
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy."
Faint was the voice, and worn and weak,
But Heaven lists when its chosen speak;
Angels caught the faltering word,
And "somebody's mother's prayer was
H, mark his wan and hollow cheeks,
And mark his eyeball glare,
And mark his teeth in anguish clenched-
The anguish of despair.
TYPE of the antique Rome! reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length, at length, after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst-
Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee
lie-
I kneel, an altered and a humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom and glory.
Vastness and age and memories of eld,
Silence and desolation and dim night,
I feel ye now-I feel ye in your strength!
O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane !
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls; Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat; Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle;
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides spectre-like unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the hornèd moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones.
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