ON now, although the year be done, Now, although the love be dead, Dead and gone; Hear me, O loved and cherished one, Give me still the hand that led, Led me on. IN THE GREEN AND GALLANT SPRING IN the green and gallant Spring, Love and the lyre I thought to sing, And kisses sweet to give and take By the flowery hawthorn brake. Now is russet Autumn here, Death and the grave and winter drear, And I must ponder here aloof While the rain is on the roof. DEATH, TO THE DEAD FOR EVERMORE DEATH, to the dead for evermore A King, a God, the last, the best of friends— Whene’er this mortal journey ends Death, like a host, comes smiling to the door; Smiling, he greets us, on that tranquil shore Where neither piping bird nor peeping dawn Disturbs the eternal sleep, But in the stillness far withdrawn Our dreamless rest for evermore we keep. For as from open windows forth we peep Upon the night-time star beset And with dews for ever wet; So from this garish life the spirit peers; And lo! as a sleeping city death outspread, Where breathe the sleepers evenly; and lo! After the loud wars, triumphs, trumpets, tears And clamour of man’s passion, Death appears, And we must rise and go. Soon are eyes tired with sunshine; soon the ears Weary of utterance, seeing all is said; Soon, racked by hopes and fears, The all-pondering, all-contriving head, Weary with all things, wearies of the years; And our sad spirits turn toward the dead; And the tired child, the body, longs for bed. TO CHARLES BAXTER _On the death of their common friend_, _Mr. John Adam_, _Clerk of court_. OUR Johnie’s deid. The mair’s the pity! He’s deid, an’ deid o’ Aqua-vitæ. O Embro’, you’re a shrunken city, Noo Johnie’s deid! Tak hands, an’ sing a burial ditty Ower Johnie’s heid. To see him was baith drink an’ meat, Gaun linkin’ glegly up the street. He but to rin or tak a seat, The wee bit body! Bein’ aye unsicken on his feet Wi’ whusky toddy. To be aye tosh was Johnie’s whim, There’s nane was better teut than him, Though whiles his gravit-knot wad clim’ Ahint his ear, An’ whiles he’d buttons oot or in The less ae mair. His hair a’ lang about his bree, His tap-lip lang by inches three— A slockened sort ‘mon,’ to pree A’ sensuality— A droutly glint was in his e’e An’ personality. An’ day an’ nicht, frae daw to daw, Dink an’ perjink an’ doucely braw, Wi’ a kind o’ Gospel ower a’, May or October, Like Peden, followin’ the Law An’ no that sober. Whusky an’ he were pack thegether. Whate’er the hour, whate’er the weather, John kept himsel’ wi’ mistened leather An’ kindled spunk. Wi’ him, there was nae askin’ whether— John was aye drunk.