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And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught For auld lang syne.
And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne!
Robert Burns [1759-1796]
ROCK ME TO SLEEP
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again, just for to-night!
Mother, come back from the echoless sh.o.r.e, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears,-- Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,-- Take them, and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay,-- Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you!
Many a summer the gra.s.s has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between: Yet, with strong yearning and pa.s.sionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other wors.h.i.+p abides and endures,-- Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours: None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold.
Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song: Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;-- Rock me to sleep, mother,--rock me to sleep!
Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]
THE BUCKET
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blus.h.i.+ng goblet would tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well-- The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
Samuel Woodworth [1785-1842]
THE GRAPE-VINE SWING
Lithe and long as the serpent train, Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Now darting upward, now down again, With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see; Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, Spanning the beach with the condor's wing.
Yet no foe that we fear to seek,-- The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace; Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek As ever on lover's breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade; While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold, And swings and sings in the noonday shade!
O giant strange of our Southern woods!
I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods, And the Northern forest beholds thee not; I think of thee still with a sweet regret, As the cordage yields to my playful grasp,-- Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet?
Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp?
William Gilmore Simms [1806-1870]
THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the journey down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hand at the old swimmin'-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
Thare the bulrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, And the suns.h.i.+ne and shadder fell over it all; And it mottled the worter with amber and gold Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled; And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be-- But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]
FORTY YEARS AGO
I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree, Upon the schoolhouse playground, that sheltered you and me; But none were there to greet me, Tom; and few were left to know, Who played with us upon that green some forty years ago.
The gra.s.s is just as green, Tom; barefooted boys at play Were sporting, just as we did then, with spirits just as gay.
But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow, Afforded us a sliding-place some forty years ago.
The old schoolhouse is altered some; the benches are replaced By new ones, very like the same our jackknives once defaced; But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro; Its music's just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago.
