That which ye ca’ the power o’ law, Is but a puir invention; It counts the deed as evil seed, But winks at the intention. Could men but be mair truly free, In some things less restrickéd, The world wad find the human kind Wad na’ be half sae wicked. The pent-up steed kept short o’ feed Is wildest in his roamin’; And dammed-up streams, wi’ angry gleams, Dash o’er each hindrance foamin’. Therefore (I pray take what I say In spirit, not in letter) Mankind should be like rivers, free-- The less they’re damned the better. You need na’ heed the grousome creed Which tells ye o’ God’s anger; On Nature’s page frae age to age, His love is written stranger. God’s providence, in ony sense, Has never been one-sided, And for the weal o’ chick, or chiel, He amply has provided. The winter’s snaw, the birken shaw,[24] The gowans[25] brightly springing, The murky night, the rosy light, The laverocks[26] gayly singing, The spring’s return, the wimplin burn,[27] The cushat[28] fondly mated, All join to tell how unco well God lo’es all things created. Then dinna strive to live and thrive Sae selfish and unthinkin’, But firmly stand, and lend a hand To keep the weak frae sinkin’. ’Tis love can make, for love’s sweet sake, A trusty fier[29] in sorrow, Wha spends his gear[30] wi’out a fear O’ what may be to-morrow. The preachers say, there’s far awa’ A land o’ milk and honey, Where all is free as barley brie, And wi’out price or money; But _here_ the meat o’ love is sweet, For souls in sinful blindness, And there’s a milk that’s guid for ilk[31]-- “The milk o’ human kindness.” The lift aboon[32] will welcome sune The wayworn and the weary, And angels fair will greet them there, Sae winsome and sae cheery. But while they stay, make smooth the way, Through all life’s wintry weather, Until ane bield[33] and common shield, Shall hauld ye all thegither. OWEENA. ONCE, when Death, the mighty hunter, Bent his bow and sent an arrow Through the shadows of the forest, Harming not the Bear or Panther, Harming not the Owl or Raven, In the bosom of Oweena, Fairest of the Indian maidens, Was the fatal arrow hidden. On the lodge of Massa-wam-sett Fell a deep and dreadful shadow; He, the wise and warlike Sachem, Mourned in silence for Oweena; But the mother, Nah-me-o-ka, Like a tall pine in the tempest, Tossed her arms in wildest anguish, Pouring forth her lamentation: “Neen wo-ma-su! Neen wo-ma-su![34] O my darling! my Oweena! Mat-ta-neen won-ka-met na-men--[35] I shall never see thee more!