Joanna Baillie Poems

NAY , sister, what hast thou to boast
Of joy? a poor reciter thou,
Whose happiest thought is but the ghost
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MOUNT , child of Morning, mount and sing,
And gaily beat thy fluttering wing,
And sound thy shrill alarms:
Bath'd in the fountains of the dew
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WHOSE imp art thou, with dimpled cheek,
And curly pate and merry eye,
And arm and shoulders round and sleek,
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A FEAST was spread in the Baron's hall,
And loud was the merry sound,
As minstrels played at lady's call,
And the cup went sparkling round.
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TOIL-WORN upon their wavy sea,
With empty nets and wasted store,
The fishermen of Galilee
Are steering cheerless to the shore.
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SIR MAURICE was a wealthy lord,
He liv'd in the north countrie,
Well would he cope with foe-man's sword,
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NOT love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflicts, nor the wrecks of change,
And duty struggling with afflictions strange,
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A VOLANT tribe of bards on earth are found,
Who, while the flatt'ring zephyrs round them play,
On 'coignes of vantage' hang their nests of clay,
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THERE is a virtue, which to Fortune's height
Follows us not, but in the vale below,
Where dwell the ills of life, disease and woe,
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TIME sooth, since Time has been, has still sustain'd
The varied murmurs of each wayward mood,
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