Janet Hamilton Poems

It is said, it is sung, it is written, and read,
It sounds in the ear, and it swims in the head,
It booms in the air, it is borne o'er the sea-
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Lone field of graves! our churchyard old and hoar!
Trench'd deep, and sown by Death with mortal grain;
Decayed, and dead it lies-not evermore!
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Is it a spirit voice-an angel's song-
That pours its liquid melody among
The mossy stones that break the rippling sheen,
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What woe is thine, pale mother?-say
What grief devours thy heart? For aye
Thy looks averted shun the day,
And midnight sees thee watch and pray
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O Nannie, dear Nannie! whan ye gaed awa',
I thocht my fu' heart wad hae broken in twa;
An' sair ye were sabbin', tho' close by yer side
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With fondest love and sweetest pleasure
Gaze I on my infant treasure-
My sweetest rose, my purest pearl,
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A small thatched cottage, moss grown old,
A low-browed, weather-beaten door,
Two windows small, that dimly light
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Speak not thus in tones of gladness,
For my soul is steeped in sadness;
Mournful visions haunt my mind-
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Oh, not unwept, unsung thy wrongs have been,
Full many a swelling heart hath bled unseen;
Full many a tearful prayer and mournful groan-
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A weary traveller on life's thorny way,
'Mid deepening shades of fast declining day,
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