The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.

Robert Southwell.

Born 1560. Died 1595.

CONSCIENCE.

My conscience is my crown;
Contented thoughts my rest;

My heart is happy in itself:
My bliss is in my breast.

Enough, I reckon wealth;
A mean, the surest lot;

That lies too high for base contempt,
Too low for envy's shot.

I have no hopes but one,
Which is of heavenly reign:
Effects attained, or not desired,
All lower hopes refrain.

I feel no care of coin;
Well-doing is my wealth:
My mind to me an empire is,
While Grace affordeth health.

I wrestle not with rage,

While fury's flame doth burn It is in vain to stop the stream, Until the tide doth turn.

But when the flame is out,

And ebbing wrath doth end;

I turn a late enraged foe
Into a quiet friend;

And taught with often proof,
A tempered calm I find

To be most solace to itself,
Best cure for angry mind.

No change of fortune's calms

Can cast my

comforts down :

When fortune smiles, I smile to think

How quickly she will frown;

And when in froward mood,
She moved an angry foe,
Small gain I found to let her come,

Less loss to let her

go.

William Julius Mickle.*

Born 1734. Died 1788.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Make haste lay by your wheel;
Is this a time to spin a thread,

When Colin's at the door?

Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

*It is a disputed point as to whether or not this very popular song was written by Mickle. It is here inserted as Mickle's as it appears in all editions of his works, but many authorities assign the authorship to Jean Adams, a poor schoolmistress who resided at Greenock. The question is cleverly discussed in some prefatory remarks to the song in "The Book of Scottish Song," an admirable collection of Scotch ballads published by Messrs. Blackie and Son. The last stanza but one was interpolated by Dr. Beattie,

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck at a';

There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa.

And gie to me my bigonet,
My bishop's satin gown;
For I maun tell the baillie's wife
That Colin's in the town.
My Turkey slippers maun gae on
My stockins pearly blue;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the muckle pot;

Gie little Kate her button gown
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw;

Its a' to please my ain gudeman,
For he's been lang awa.

There's twa fat hens upo' the coop
Been fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare;

And mak our table neat and clean,

Let every thing look braw,

For wha can tell how Colin fared

When he was far awa?

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,

His

His breath like caller air;

very foot has music in't

As he comes up the stair

And shall I see his face again?
And shall I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet!

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part;
But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa!

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw.

Since Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave:

And gin I live to keep him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave:
And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,
In troth I'm like to greet.