You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last. You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray. In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past. You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason, I pray. I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied; Let the cause thy attention engage: In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! And He hath not forgotten my age. _MRS. COCKBURN_ THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST I'VE seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now it is fled--it is fled far away. I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; Sae bonny was their blooming! Their scent the air perfuming! But now they are withered and weeded away. I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day, I've seen Tweed's silver streams, Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way. O fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. _WILLIAM WORDSWORTH_ LUCY GRAY OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray; And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day, The solitary child. No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. 'To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow.' 'That, father, will I gladly do! 'Tis scarcely afternoon The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon.' At this the father raised his hook And snapped a fagot band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke. The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down: And many a hill did Lucy climb; But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night, Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.