ROBERT BUCHANAN

WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP

WHEN He returns, and finds the world so drear,
All sleeping, young and old, unfair and fair,
Will he stoop down and whisper in each ear,
"Awaken!" or for pity's sake forbear,
Saying, "How shall I meet their frozen stare
Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?
How shall I comfort them in their despair,
If they cry out too late, 'Let us sleep here'?"
Perchance He will not wake us up, but when
He sees us look so happy in our rest,
Will murmur, "Poor dead women and dead men!
Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest,
Wherefore awake them into life again?

Let them sleep on untroubled — it is best.”

JOHN MALCOLM BULLOCH

TO HOMER

ALL down the years thy tale has rolled A brilliant streak of burnished gold.

Old Homer, near we seem to thee,

As roving over vale and sea Thou tellest of thy hero bold!

For we too wander, as of old

Thy hero did. The fates are doled

To us the same, both serf and free,
All down the years.

None other yet has ever told
So sweet a tale; as we unfold

Thy mystic page we find the key Of human sorrow, guilt and glee, Which ever comes our souls to mould All down the years.

ROBERT BURNS

O MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE

O MY Luve's like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June:
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

TO A MOUSE

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE PLOUGH IN

NOVEMBER

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request:

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

And never miss 't.

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the winds are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel coulter pass'd
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft a-gley,

An' leave us nought but grief and pain,
For promised joy.

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee;

But, och! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I canna see,

I guess an' fear.