Puslapio vaizdai
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Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid

He aye sleeps next the wa'

Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece ;"
The rascal starts them a'.

I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks,
They stop awee the soun',
Then draw the blankets up an' cry,
"Noo, weanies, cuddle doon."

But, ere five minutes gang, wee Rab

Cries out, frae 'neath the claes, "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance, He's kittlin' wi' his taes." The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, He'd bother half the toon; But aye I hap them up and cry, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

At length they hear their faither's fit,
An', as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa',

While Tam pretends to snore. "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks,

As he pits aff his shoon; "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon."

An' just afore we bed oorsels,

We look at our wee lambs;

Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,

And Rab his airm round Tam's.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An' as I straik each croon,
I whisper, till my heart fills up,
"Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht

Wi' mirth that's dear to me;
But soon the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee.

Yet, come what will to ilka ane,
May He who rules aboon

Aye whisper, though their pows be bald, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon."

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Eugene Lee-Hamilton

SIR WALTER RALEIGH TO A
CAGED LINNET

THOU tiny solace of these prison days,
Too long already have I kept thee here;
With every week thou hast become more
dear-

So dear that I will free thee: fly thy

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CHARLES II. OF SPAIN TO
APPROACHING DEATH

MAKE way, my lords! for Death now once again

Waits on the palace stairs. He comes to lay His finger on my brow. Make way! make

way,

Ye whispering groups that scent an ending reign!

Death, if I make thee a grandee of Spain, And give thee half my subjects, wilt thou stay

Behind the door a little, while I play
With life a moment longer? I would fain.
Oh, who shall turn the fatal shadow back
On Ahaz' sundial now? Who'll cure the
king

When Death awaits him, motionless and black?

Upon the wall the inexorable thing
Creeps on and on, with horror in its track.
The king is dying. Bid the great bells ring.

TO MY TORTOISE CHRONOS THOU vague dumb crawler with the groping head

As listless to the sun as to the showers, Thou very image of the wingless Hours Now creeping past me with their feet of lead :

For thee and me the same small garden bed

Is the whole world: the same half life is ours;

And year by year, as Fate restricts my

powers,

I grow more like thee, and the soul grows dead.

No, Tortoise from thy like in days of old

Was made the living lyre; and mighty strings

Spanned thy green shell with pure vibrating gold.

The notes soared up, on strong but trembling wings,

Through ether's lower zones; then, growing bold,

Spurned earth for ever and its wingless

things.

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