In order, on the clean hearth-stane,
The luggies three are ranged,
An' ev'ry time great care is taen,
To see them duly changed;
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys,
Sin' Mar's year did desire,
Because he gat the toom dish thrice,
He heav'd them on the fire,
In wrath that night.
Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks,
I wat they did na weary;
An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes,
Their sports were cheap an' cheery,
Till butter'd so'ns, wi' fragrant lunt,
Set a' their gabs a-steerin;
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt,
They parted aff careerin,
Fu' blythe that night.
HEN I am old (and O, how soon
Will life's sweet morning yield to noon,
And noon's broad, fervid, earnest light
Be shaded in the solemn night!
Till like a story well-nigh told
Will seem my life, when I am old,) -
When I am old, this breezy earth
Will lose for me its voice of mirth;
The streams will have an undertone
Of sadness not by right their own;
And spring's sweet power in vain unfold
In rosy charms
when I am old,
When I am old, I shall not care
To deck with flowers my faded hair;
"T will be no vain desire of mine
In rich and costly dress to shine;
Bright jewels and the brightest gold
Will charm me nought - when I am old.
When I am old, my friends will be
Old and infirm and bowed, like me;
Or else,(their bodies 'neath the sod,
Their spirits dwelling safe with God), -
The old church-bell will long have tolled
Above the rest when I am old.
When I am old, I'd rather bend
Thus sadly o'er each buried friend,
Than see them lose the earnest truth
That marks the friendship of our youth;
"Twill be so sad to have them cold,
Or strange to me when I am old!
When I am old - O, how it seems
Like the wild lunacy of dreams,
To picture in prophetic rhyme
That dim, far-distant, shadowy time.
So distant, that it seems o'er bold
When I am old — perhaps ere then
I shall be missed from haunts of men;
Perhaps my dwelling will be found
Beneath the green and quiet mound;
My name by stranger hands enrolled
Among the dead ere I am old.
Ere I am old? that time is now,
For youth sits lightly on my brow;
My limbs are firm, and strong, and free;
Life hath a thousand charms for me;
Charms that will long their influence hold
Within my heart—ere I am old.
Ere I am old, O, let me give
My life to learning how to live!
Then shall I meet with willing heart
An early summons to depart,
Or find my lengthened days consoled
By God's sweet peace when I am old.
ING, joyous chords! — ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
They are here- the fair face and the careless
And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part.
But I meet a dimly mournful glance,
In a sudden turn of the flying dance;
I heard the tone of a heavy sigh
In a pause of the thrilling melody!
And it is not well that woe should breathe
On the bright spring flowers of the festal wreath!
Ye that to thought or to grief belong,
Leave, leave the hall of song!
Ring, joyous chords! - but who art thou,
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale, young brow,
And the world of dreamy gloom that lies
In the misty depths of thy soft, dark eyes?
Thou hast loved, fair girl, thou hast loved too well:
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell;
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth,
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth;
Mourn on!-yet come thou not here the while:
It is but a pain to see thee smile;
There is not a tone in our songs for thee—
Home with thy sorrows flee.
Ring, joyous chords! ring out again!
But what dost thou with the revel's train?
A silvery voice through the soft air floats,
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes;
There are bright young faces that pass thee by,
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye.
Away! there's a void in thy yearning breast,
Thou weary man; wilt thou here find rest?
Away for thy thoughts from the scene have fled,
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead!
Thou art but more lone 'midst the sounds of mirth.
Back to thy silent hearth!
Ring, joyous chords! ring forth again;
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
But thou, though a reckless mien be thine,
And thy cup be crowned with the foaming wine,
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud,
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud,
I know thee! it is but the wakeful fear
Of a haunted bosom that brings thee here!
I know thee! thou fearest the solemn night,
With her piercing stars and her deep wind's might!
There's a tone in her voice which thou fain would shun
For it asks what the secret soul had done!
And thou, there's a dark weight on thine-
Back to thy home and pray!
Ring, joyous chords! ring out again!
A swifter still, and a wilder strain!
And bring fresh wreaths! we will banish all
Save the free in heart from our festive hall.
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