Ballad of the Brides of Quair.

And day by day they seek the paths
About the lonely fields of Quair.

To see the trout leap in the streams,
The summer clouds reflected there,
The maiden loves in pensive dreams

To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair.

Within, in pall-black velvet clad,

Sits stately in her oaken chair,

A stately dame of ancient name,
The mother of the House of Quair.

Her daughter broiders by her side,

With heavy-drooping golden hair, And listens to her frequent plaint,

"Ill fare the brides that come to Quair;

"For more than one hath lived to pine,

And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the House of Quair.

"Alas! and ere thy father died I had not in his heart a share,

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And now
may God forefend her ill!
Thy brother brings his bride to Quair."

She came; they kissed her in the hall,
They kissed her on the winding stair;
They led her to the chamber high,

The fairest in the House of Quair.

They bade her from the window look,
And mark the scene how passing fair,
Among whose ways the quiet days

Would linger o'er the wife of Quair.

""T is fair," she said, on looking forth, "But what although 't were bleak and bare?” She looked the love she did not speak, And broke the ancient curse of Quair.

"Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes,
His dangers and his toils I share."
What need be said? She was not one
Of the ill-fated brides of Quair.

Isa Craig Knox

A Woman's Thought.

75

I

A WOMAN'S THOUGHT.

AM a woman, therefore I may not
Call him, cry to him,

Fly to him,

Bid him delay not!

And when he comes to me, I must sit quiet,

Still as a stone,

All silent and cold.

If my heart riot,

Crush and defy it!
Should I grow bold,
Say one dear thing to him,
All my life fling to him,
Cling to him,

What to atone

Is enough for my sinning?
This were the cost to me,
This were my winning,

That he were lost to me.

Not as a lover

At last if he part from me,
Tearing my heart from me,
Hurt beyond cure,

Calm and demure

Then must I hold me,
In myself fold me,
Lest he discover ;
Showing no sign to him
By look of mine to him
What he has been to me,

How my heart turns to him,
Follows him, yearns to him,
Prays him to love me.

Pity me, lean to me,

Thou God above me!

Richard Watson Gilder.

The Bonnie Wee Thing

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THE BONNIE WEE THING,

BONNE

ONNIE wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine,

I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine.

Wistfully I look and languish

In that bonnie face of thine,
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty
In ae constellation shine;

To adore thee is my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine!

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,

Lovely wee thing, wast thou mine, I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine.

Robert Burns.