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THE MIDNIGHT WIND.

Mournfully! oh, mournfully

The midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by !

It speaks of a tale of other years -
Of hopes that bloomed to die
Of sunny smiles that set in tears,
And loves that mouldering lie.

Mournfully! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth moan,
It stirs some chord of memory
In each dull, heavy tone;

The voices of the much-loved dead
Come floating thereupon
All, all my fond heart cherished
Ere death had made it lone.

Mournfully! oh, mournfully
This midnight wind doth swell
With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy
Hope's passionate farewell,

To the dreamy joys of early years,
Ere yet grief's canker fell

On the heart's bloom - aye, well may tears
Start at that parting knell !

MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to break

I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,

I'm dyin, for your sake.

I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,

And sick wi' a' I see;

I canna live as I hae lived,

Or be as I should be.

But fauld unto your heart, Willie,

The heart that still is thine

And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek

Ye said was red langsyne.

O dinna mind my words, Willie,

I downa seek to blame;

But, O! it's hard to live, Willie,
And dree a cold warld's shame;
Het tears are hailin' o'er your cheek
And hailin' o'er your chin;
Why weep ye sue for worthlessness,

For sorrow and for sin?

It's vain to comfort me, Willie,
Sair grief maun hae its will;
But let me rest upon your breist
To sab and greet my fill:
Let me sit on your knee, Willie,
Let me shed by your hair,
And look into the face, Willie,
I never sall see mair.

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,
For the last time in my life.
A puir, heart-broken thing, Willie,
A mither, yet nae wife;
Aye, press your hand upon my heart,
And press it mair and mair,
Or it will burst the silken string
Sae strang is its despair.

A stoun gaes thro' my head, Willie,
A sair stoun thro' my heart
Oh! haud me up and let me kiss
Thy brow ere we twa pairt.
Anither, and anither yet! -
How fast my lifestrings break;
Fareweel! fareweel! thro' yon kirkyard
Step lichtly for my sake!

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,
That lilts far ower our head,
Will sing the morn as merrillie
Above the clay-cauld deid;
And this green turf we're sitting on
Wi' dewdrops shimmerin' sheen,
Will hap the heart that luvit thee
As warld has seldom seen.

But, oh, remember me, Willie,
On land where'er ye be

And oh! think on the leal, leal heart,
That ne'er luvit ane but thee!

And oh, think on the cauld, cauld mools

That fill my yellow hair

That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin

Yet never sall kiss mair.

JEANIE MORRISON.

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, Through mony a weary way;

But never never can forget

The luve o' life's young day!
The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en

May weel be black gin Yule :
But blacker fa' awaits the heart
Where first fond luve grows cule.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
The thochts o' bygane years
Still fling their shadows ower my path,
And blind my een w' tears:

They blind my een with saut, saut tears,
And sair and sick I pine,
As memory idly summons up

The blythe blinks o' langsyne.

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The throssil whusslit in the wud,
The burn sung to the trees,

And we with Nature's heart in tune

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn

For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat!

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trickled down your cheek,
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had only power to speak!
That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled - unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,
Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest thochts
As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit

Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way, And channels deeper as it rins

The luve o' life's young day.

O, dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Since we were sinder'd young,
I've never seen your face, nor heard

The music o' your tongue;
But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I die,

Did I but ken your heart still dream'd

O' bygane days and me!

END OF VOLUME XCIX.

FOR 1869.

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Only $3 a Year in advance; Two Years for $5.

THE JANUARY NUMBER

Will contain a remarkable paper on "Progress," by Dr. Bushnell; one on "Bab and Babism," by Prof. Evans, that will be read with surprise and extraordinary interest (Bab is the new prophet of Islamism, whose career is scarcely eclipsed by that of Mohammed himself); another charming paper on "China," by Rev. G. B. Bacon; "A Chat with M. Berryer," whose death is just announced; and various Essays, Poems, and Serials, that will sustain the high character of this monthly.

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MISS MANNING,

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This tale has been purchased from the distinguished English author in MS., and will be published exclusively in HoURS AT HOME. The other by Miss PRITCHARD, the popular author of " Storm-Cliff," and other well-known books, entitled

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ON JANUARY 1st, 1869,

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