16<S THE CHRONICLES OF A GARDEN. 



Wha guards the crowned king, Birdie ! wha guards the crowned 



king, 

 And taketh heed for sic as me — 

 Sae little worth — an' e'en for thee, 



Pnir witless thing ! 



Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie, and sin' Ave 're only twa — 

 Aff han' — let 's ilk ane do our best, 

 To ding that crabbit, canker'd pest, 



Dull care awa ! 



Caroline Southey. 



MY DOVES. 



My little doves have left a nest 



Upon an Indian tree. 



Whose leaves fantastic take their rest 



Or motion from the sea ; 



For, ever there, the sea-winds go 



With sunlit paces to and fro. 



The tropic flowers look'd np to it, 



The tropic stars look'd down. 



And there my little doves did sit. 



With feathers softly brown. 



And glittering eyes, that shew'd theii rigLt 



To general nature's deep delight. 



And God them taught, at every close 

 Of murmuring waves beyond, 

 And green leaves round, to interpose 

 Their choral voices fond, 

 Interpreting that love must be 

 The meaning of the earth and sea. 



Fit ministers ! of living loves, 

 Tlieirs hath the calmest fashion. 

 Their living voice the likest moves 



