Bird of the morn, When roseate clouds begin To show the opening dawn Thou gladly sing'st it in, And o'er the sweet green fields and happy vales Thy pleasant song is heard, mixed with the morning gales. Bird of the morn, What time the ruddy sun Smiles on the pleasant corn Thy singing is begun, Heartfelt and cheering over labourers' toil, Who chop in coppice wild and delve the russet soil. Bird of the sun, How dear to man art thou! When morning has begun To gild the mountain's brow, How beautiful it is to see thee soar so blest, Winnowing thy russet wings above thy twitchy nest. Bird of the Summer's day, How oft I stand to hear Thee sing thy airy lay, With music wild and clear, Till thou becom'st a speck upon the sky, Small as the clods that crumble where I lie. Thou bird of happiest song, The Spring and Summer too Are thine, the months along, The woods and vales to view. If climes were evergreen thy song would be The sunny music of eternal glee. GRAVES OF INFANTS Infants' gravemounds are steps of angels, where Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose. God is their parent, so they need no tear; He takes them to his bosom from earth's woes, A bud their lifetime and a flower their close. Their spirits are the Iris of the skies, Needing no prayers; a sunset's happy close. Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes; Flowers weep in dew-drops o'er them, and the gale gently sighs. Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower, Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye. Each death Was tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by. They bowed and trembled, yet they heaved no sigh, And the sun smiled to show the end was well. Infants have nought to weep for ere they die; All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell, White flowers their mourners are, Nature their passing bell. BONNIE LASSIE O! O the evening's for the fair, bonny lassie O! To meet the cooler air and join an angel there, With the dark dishevelled hair, Bonny lassie O! The bloom's on the brere, bonny lassie O! Oak apples on the tree; and wilt thou gang to see The shed I've made for thee, Bonny lassie O! 'T is agen the running brook, bonny lassie O! In a grassy nook hard by, with a little patch of sky, And a bush to keep us dry, Bonny lassie O! There's the daisy all the year, bonny lassie O! There's the king-cup bright as gold, and the speedwell never cold, And the arum leaves unrolled, Bonny lassie O! O meet me at the shed, bonny lassie O! With the woodbine peeping in, and the roses like thy skin Blushing, thy praise to win, Bonny lassie O! I will meet thee there at e'en, bonny lassie O! When the bee sips in the beau, and grey willow branches lean, And the moonbeam looks between, Bonny lassie O! PHOEBE OF THE SCOTTISH GLEN