No tawny chieftain’s swarthy son,
  Was ever fonder of the chase,
Than I was of my trusty gun,
  Although I had a paler face.

I shot the squirrel near his den. 
  The silly rabbit near her lair;
And captured ev’ry now and then,
  A pheasant in my cunning snare.

And many things I think of here,
  Which time forbids me now to say,
That happen’d in my wild career,
  To me, since that eventful day

When my fond mother wash’d my face,
  And combed my flaxen hair,
And started me in learning’s race,
  And breath’d to heav’n a silent prayer,

That I might grow to man’s estate,
  And cultivate my opening mind;
And not be rich or wise or great,
  But gentle, true and good and kind.

My mother’s face, I see it yet,
  That thoughtful face, with eyes of blue,
I trust I never shall forget
  Her words of counsel, sage and true.

She left me, when she pass’d away,
  More than a royal legacy,
I would not for a monarch’s sway,
  Exchange the things she gave to me.

She gave me naught of sordid wealth,
  But that which wealth can never be,
Her iron frame and robust health,
  Are more than diadems to me.

She left to me the azure sky,
  With all its countless orbs of light,
Which wonder-strike the thoughtful eye,
  And beautify the dome of night.

The deep blue sea from shore to shore,
  The boundless rays of solar light,
The lightnings flash, the thunders roar—­
  I hold them all in my own right.

And lastly that there be no lack,
  Of any good thing by her given,
She left to me the shining track,
  Which led her footsteps up to heaven.

STANZAS

To A little girl on her birthday.

My dear, the bard his greeting sends,
And wishes you and all your friends,
      A happy birthday meeting. 
Let social pleasures crown the day,
But while you chase dull care away,
      Remember time is fleeting.

Then learn the lesson of this day,
Another year has pass’d away,
      Beyond our reach forever. 
And as the fleeting moments glide,
They bear us on their noiseless tide,
      Like straws upon the river,

Into that vast, unfathomed sea,
Marked on the map “eternity,”
      With neither bound nor shore. 
There may we find some blissful isle
Where basking in our Saviour’s smile,
      We’ll meet to part no more.

TO MISS MARY BAIN.

My cousin fair, dear Mary B,
  Excuse my long neglect I pray,
And pardon too, the homely strain,
  In which I sing this rustic lay.

My muse and I are sorted ill,
  I’m in my yellow leaf and sere;
While she is young and ardent still
  And urges me to persevere.