There's not a man of woman born That dares to call me kin-- O grave! wert thou but deep enough To hide me and my sin! I wander east, I wander west, I neither can stop nor stay, But I dread the night when all men rest Far more than the glint of day. O weary night, wi' all its stars Sae clear, and pure, and hie! Like the eyes of angels up in heaven That will not weep for me! O weary night, when the silence lies Around me, broad and deep, And dreams of earth, and dreams of heaven, That vex me in my sleep. For aye I see the murdered man, As on the muir he lay, With his pale white face, and reverend head, And his locks sae thin and gray; And my hand grows red with the holy blude I shed that bitter day! O were I but a water drop To melt into the sea-- But never water yet came down Could wash that blude from me! And O! to dream of that dear heaven That I had hoped to win-- And the heavy gates o' the burning gowd That will not let me in! I hear the psalm that's sung in heaven, When the morning breaks sae fair, And my soul is sick wi' the melodie Of the angels quiring there. I feel the breath of God's ain flowers From out that happy land, But the fairest flower o' Paradise Would wither in my hand. And aye before me gapes a pit Far deeper than the sea, And waefn' sounds rise up below, And deid men call on me. O that I never had been born, And ne'er the light had seen! Dear God--to look on yonder gates And this dark gulf between! O that a wee wee bird wad come Though 'twere but ance a-year! And bring but sae much mool and earth As its sma' feet could bear, And drap it in the ugsome hole That lies 'twixt heaven and me, I yet might hope, ere the warld were dune, My soul might saved be! W. E. A. FOOTNOTE: [16] LAWSON'S _History of the Episcopal Church of Scotland_. A NOVEMBER MORNING'S REVERIE. BY DELTA. Hast thou a chamber in the utter West, A cave of shelter from the glare of day, Oh radiant Star of Morning! whose pure eye, Like an archangel's, over the dim Earth, With such ineffable effulgence shines? Emblem of Sanctity and Peace art thou! Thou leavest man, what time to daily toil His steps are bent--what time the bustling world Usurps his thought; and, through the sunny hours, Unseen, forgot, art like the things that were; But Twilight weeps for joy at thy return, With brighter blaze the faggots on the hearth Sparkle, and home records its happiest hour!