I am no link of thy great chain, But all my company is as a weed: Lord place me in thy concert-give one strain GEORGE HERBERT, 1598-1632. THE GARDEN. When the light flourish of the blue-bird sounds, Our grateful task of molding into form The waste around us. The quick delving spade Upturns the fresh and odorous earth; the rake Smooths the plump bed, and in their furrow'd graves Upon the apple-bough, and flutters down Toward the fall'n wealth of food around the mouth Of the light paper pouch upon the earth. But, fearful of our motions, off he flies, And stoops upon the grub the spade has thrown Loose from its den beside the wounded root. Days pass along. The pattering shower falls down And then the warming sunshine. Tiny clifts Tell that the seed has turn'd itself, and now Is pushing up its stem. The verdant pea The downy cucumber is seen; the corn Upshoots its close-wrapp'd spike, and on its mound Meanwhile the fruit-trees gloriously have broke Into a flush of beauty, and the grape, Of greenish gold. Each dark nook has a voice, And yet looks down with smiles on lowly man. ALFRED STREET. THE GARDENER. AN OLD SCOTCH BALLAD. A maiden stude in her bouir door, Wi' a primrose in his hand. "O ladye, are ye single yet, Or will ye marry me? Ye'se get a' the flouirs in my garden, To be a weed* for thee." "I love your flouirs," the ladye said, It is scarcely necessary to observe that weed, in old English, signified garmen. bouir, meant chamber, or apartment; kute, ankle; braune, calf. For I can live without mankind, "You shall not live without mankind, And among the flouirs in my garden, "The lilye flouir to be your smock; It becomes your bodie best; Your head shall be bushit wi' the gellye-flouir; The primrose in your breist. "Your gown sall be o' the sweet-william⚫ Your coat o' the cammovine; Your apron o' the seel of downs Come smile, sweetheart o' mine! "Your gloves shall be o' the green clover, All glitterin to your hand; Weil spread ower wi' the blue blawort That grows among corn-land. "Your stockings shall be o' the cabbage-leaf, That is baith braid and lang; Narrow, narrow at the kute,* And braid, braid at the braune.* "Your shoon shall be o' the gude rue red, I trow it bodes nae ill; The buckles o' the marygold Come smile, sweetheart, your fill!" "Young man, ye've shapit a weed for me Amang the simmer flouirs; Now I will shape anither for thee Amang the winter showirs. "The snaw so white shall be your shirt, It becomes your body best; The cold east wind shall wrap your heid, "The steed that you shall ride upon Weil bridled wi' the northern wind, *See note on previous page. "The hat you on your heid shall wear Shall be o' the weather grey; And aye when ye come into my sicht, I'll wish ye were away." 181 Anonymous. LINES. Sweetly breathing vernal air, On whose brow, with calm smiles drest, Thou, if stormy Boreas throws Down whole forests when he blows, If he blast what's fair and good; THOMAS CAREW, about 1600. |