NO JEWELLED BEAUTY. No jewell'd Beauty is my love; Yet in her earnest face There's such a world of tenderness, Her smiles and voice around my life And dear, O very dear to me, Is this sweet Love of mine. O joy! to know there's one fond heart It sets mine leaping like a lyre, If ever I have sigh'd for wealth, I'll twine it on her brow. There may be forms more beautiful, But none, O none, so dear to me, As this sweet Love of mine. Gerald Massey. THE WEE THING. Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming? "Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white ; Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee; Red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses; Where could my wee thing wander frae me?"— "I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing, "Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white; Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses; "It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing, "Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; Oft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee : Fair as your face is, wer't fifty times fairer, Young braggart, she ne'er would gie kisses to thee!" "It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary; Sair gloom'd his dark brow-blood-red his cheek grew- "Ye'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning: Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie." THE LETTER. "Awa wi' beguiling!" cried the youth, smiling: "Is it my wee thing? is it mine ain thing? O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me; THE LETTER. Hector Macneil. THE set sun of my joy again ariseth, By thy sweet letter is my soul revived, And as a sudden lamp dark sleep surpriseth, Thy greeting starts my heart in slumber gyved; Thou hast wept o'er the closure of thy page, And weeping words with weeping tears are blotted— From the same fount that hath from age to age, Gush'd with the dew to all fond thoughts allotted; Oh! they do seem the eloquent presage Of bliss hereafter, sweet though sorrow-spotted! On "pity," "love me," "cherish," and "forget," Have drops down fallen-the sweet words still seem wet. Thus, thus, on dry tears I moist tears let fall; Would they were on thy cheek, whose rose would tinge them all! Thomas Wade, |