As she was going to the church, 

 She saw a sweet babe in the porch. 



' O sweet babe, if thou wert mine, 

 I wad deed thee in silk and sabelline.' 



' O mother mine, when I was thine, 

 You didna prove to me sae kind. 



* But now I 'm in the heavens hie, 



Fine flowers in the valley ; 

 And ye have the pains o' hell to dree, 



And the green leaves they grow rarely.' 



ANON. 



w 



A LATE WALK 



HEN I go up through the mowing field, 



The headless aftermath. 

 Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew, 



Half closes the garden path. 



And when I come to the garden ground, 



The whirr of sober birds 

 Up from the tangle of withered weeds 



Is sadder than any words. 



A tree beside the wall stands bare. 



But a leaf that lingered brown. 

 Disturbed, no doubt, by my thought, 



Comes softly rattling down. 



