Save his own dashings,

yet the dead are there!

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep,

So shalt thou rest;

- the dead reign there alone!
and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men

The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man-
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY

BY WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

Yet has no month a prouder day,
Not even when the summer broods
O'er meadows in their fresh array,

Or autumn tints the glowing woods.

For this chill season now again

Brings in its annual rounds the morn When greatest of the sons of men, Our glorious Washington, was born.

AULD LANG SYNE

BY ROBERT BURNS

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

CHORUS

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae mornin' sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roared
Sin' auld lang syne..

For auld, etc.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

For auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.

HIGHLAND MARY

BY ROBERT BURNS

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As, underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But, oh, fell death's untimely frost,

That nipp'd flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft ha'e kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary!

MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN

BY ROBERT BURNS

Gilbert Burns, the brother of the poet, says: "He (Burns) used to remark to me that he could not well conceive a more mortifying picture of human life than a man seeking work. In casting about in his mind how this sentiment might be brought forward, the elegy, 'Man was Made to Mourn' was composed."

When chill November's surly blast
Made fields and forests bare,
One evening, as I wandered forth
Along the banks of Ayr,

I spied a man whose aged step
Seemed weary, worn with care;
His face was furrowed o'er with years,
And hoary was his hair.

"Young stranger, whither wanderest thou?"

Began the reverend sage;

"Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain,

Or youthful pleasures rage?

Or haply, prest with cares and woes,

Too soon thou hast began

To wander forth, with me, to mourn

The miseries of man!

"The sun that overhangs yon moors,
Outspreading far and wide,
Where hundreds labor to support

A haughty lordling's pride,
I've seen yon weary winter sun
Twice forty times return;