Sae dear’s that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu’ man e’er brought
    To the land o’ the leal.

Oh! dry your glist’ning e’e, John,
My soul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me
    To the land o’ the leal.

Noo, haud ye leal and true, John,
Your day it’s weel near through, John,
And I’ll welcome you
    To the land o’ the leal.

Noo, fare-ye-weel, my ain John,
This warld’s cares are vain, John,
We’ll meet, and we’ll be fain,
    In the land o’ the leal.

Henderson’s Text.

* * * * *

ALEXANDER POPE.

55. Ode on Solitude.

Happy the man, whose wish and care
  A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
            In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
  Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
            In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern’dly find
  Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
            Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
  Together mix’d; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please
            With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,
  Thus unlamented let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
            Tell where I lie.

1735 Edition.

* * * * *

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

56. The Night before his Death.

Even such is time, that takes on trust
  Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
  Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days! 
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
The Lord shall raise me up, I trust!

1829 Edition.

* * * * *

SAMUEL ROGERS.

57. A Wish.

Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet-gown and apron blue.

The village-church, among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.