GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW. Lo the lilies of the field, How their leaves instruction yield! 66 Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow: Reginald Heber. HEAVENLY HOPE AND EARTHLY HOPE. Thus heavenly hope is all serene, But earthly hope, how bright so e'er DEATH. Reginald Heber. DEATH rides on every passing breeze, Reginald Heber. MY NANNIE O. RED rows the Nith 'tween bank and breeze, Though heaven and earth should mix in storm, My Nannie O, my Nannie O; My kind and winsome Nannie O, In preaching time sae meek she stands, For thieving looks at Nannie O; My Nannie O, my Nannie O; Allan Cunningham, 1784-1841 BRIDAL-DAY SONG. Ar times there come, as come there ought, The best of all that's not divine. Allan Cunningham. MY AIN COUNTRIE. THE sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he: But he has tint the blithe blink he had O gladness comes to many, But sorrow comes to me, O it's nae my ain ruin That saddens åye my e'e, In my ain countrie. Allan Cunningham. CHILD OF THE COUNTRY. CHILD of the Country! free as air Of such a fair and gladsome thing. Allan Cunningham. CHILD OF THE TOWN. CHILD of the Town for thee I sigh; A narrow street thy boundless wood, Else is wreck wrought in aught so fair? Allan Cunningham. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail And bends the gallant mast. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. Allan Cunningham. THE MORNING. OH, come! for the lily Oh, come! for the wood-doves On her wings and her feet; Loud, varied, and sweet; And with flowers I will weave thee A crown like a queen. Allan Cunningham. THOU HAST SWORN. THOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, By a' the stars sown thick o'er heaven, Allan Cunningham. SOWING IN SECRET. THERE be those who sow beside The noiseless footsteps pass away, Yet think not that the seed is dead It lives, it lives-the Spring is nigh, And soon its life shall testify. Bernard Barton, 1784-1849 A SPRING DIRGE. THE Songster on the bough, Spring's early greenness, and its opening flower, My heart, with answering glee, Was wont to hail "the merry month of May, And, like the sapling tree, To bud and blossom in its genial ray. Now it seems cold and drear, While birds are singing round, and flowerets blow; Stands the scathed trunk, whose sap forgets to flow. Bernard Barton. THE SOLITARY TOMB. NOT a leaf of the tree which stood near me was stirr'd, The sky was cloudless and calm, except In the west, where the sun was descending; And the evening star, with its ray so clear, Had lit up its lamp, and shot down from its sphere |