“Jean to Jamie” seems to us almost the perfection of a poem of that class. The pathos of it is so genuine, so unobtrusive and so deep that one feels, instinctively, that the lines of the poem ran from the heart of one who had suffered. Henry Timrod said of it, “The verse flows with the softness of a woman’s tears.” The poem, published in 1866, has long since been lost to current literature. Believing it to be a treasure that ought to be recovered, we reproduce it. Jean to Jamie What do you think now, Jamie, What do you think now? ’Tis many a long year since we parted; Do you still believe Jean honest-hearted— Do you think so now? You did think so once, Jamie, In the blithe spring-time; “There’s never a star in the blue sky That’s half sae true as my Jamie,” quo’ I— Do you mind the time? We were happy then, Jamie, Too happy, I fear; Sae we kissed farewell at the cottage door— I never hae seen you since at that door This many a year. For they told you lies, Jamie; You believed them a’! You, who had promised to trust me true Before the whole world—what did you do? You believed them a’! When they called you fause, Jamie, And argued it sair, I flashed wi’ anger—I kindled wi’ scorn, Less at you than at them; I was sae lorn, I couldna do mair. After a bit while, Jamie,— After a while, I heard a’ the cruel words you had said— The cruel, hard words; sae I bowed my head— Na tear—na smile— And you took your letters, Jamie, Gathered them a’, And burnt them one by one in the fire, And watched the bright blaze leaping higher— Burnt ringlet and a’! Then back to the world, Jamie, Laughing went I; There ne’er was a merrier laugh than mine; What foot could outdance me—what eye outshine? “Puir fool!” laughed I. But I’m weary of mirth, Jamie, ’Tis hollowness a’; And in these long years sin’ we were parted, I fear I’m growing aye colder-hearted Than you thought ava! I hae many lovers, Jamie, But I dinna care; I canna abide a’ the nonsense they speak— Yet I’d go on my knees o’er Arran’s gray peak To see thee ance mair! I long for you back, Jamie, But that canna be; I sit all alone by the ingle at e’en, And think o’ those sad words: “It might have been”— Yet never can be! D’ye think o’ the past, Jamie? D’ye think o’ it now? ’Twad be a bit comfort to know that ye did— Oh, sair, would I greet to know that ye did, My dear, dear Jamie! The Passing of Lucy and Rollo Gentle reader, did you ever steep your mind in one of those Sunday School hooks which were in circulation previous to our Civil War? If not, ransack your grandmother’s garret until you find a specimen of that Arcadian literature.