I had a call from Clarabella,
  Who said my choice was very good;
But though her speech was calm and mellow,
  I thought her in an envious mood. 
Indeed I had some small suspicion
  She had avenged a woman’s grudge,
And had conveyed my true condition
  To the ears of Farmer Hodge.

Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger,
  Who knew me spite of my changed dress. 
“Squoire,” said he, “I think I’d wager
  There is a something thee doan’t guess;
Lucinda’s father knew by letter
  Thee wert a squoire in low disguise,
And she, altho’ she loiked me better,
  Agreed to take the richer prize.”

XXII.

THE SONG OF ROSALIE.

Row on! row on! to flowing Tay,
  Thou Dighty, who art dear to me;
For here upon thy flowery brae
  I parted last frae Rosalie. 
Her hair, so rich in gowden hue,
  Ilk plait was like a gowden string,
Her eyne were like the bonnie blue
  That shines upon the halcyon’s wing.

There is a worm that loves the bud,
  And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
  Within the dark and silent tomb.

Thou speckled thrush, with tuneful throat,
  Who sing’st within yon greenwood dell;
Sing on, for every trembling note
  Brings back the voice I loved so well. 
Thou little pansy, raise thy head,
  And turn thine azure eye to me,
And so remind me of the dead,
  My dearest, long lost Rosalie.

There is a worm that loves the bud,
  And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
  Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Thou lambkin on yon hillock’s brow,
  That sportest in thy gamesome mood,
Play on! for thou remind’st me now
  Of one as innocent and good;
All emblems dear, for thoughts you bring
  Of her who loved you all to see,
When through the woods in early spring
  Ilk bird seemed calling “Rosalie.”

But there’s a worm that loves the bud,
  And there is one that loves the bloom,
And there is one that seeks its food
  Within the dark and dreary tomb.

Far have I roamed for years and years,
  As from my thoughts I fain would stray;
But here once more I weep my tears
  O’er her now mouldering in the clay. 
Oh! would that happy day were come
  When death shall set my spirit free,
And I shall rise to yonder home,
  And be again with Rosalie,

Where is no worm to gnaw the bud,
  And none to blight the youthful bloom;
Where spirits sing in joyful mood,
  “Behold our triumph o’er the tomb!”

XXIII.

THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD’S VANITY.

I.

Mournfully maundering,
Life’s last moments squandering,
Weary, weary, wandering,
  Through this world of sin,
Hermit-shade!  I call thee;
Lead me to the valley—­
That mysterious alley,
  Where I may creep in.