WILLIAM ALLINGHAM
Wee folk, good folk, Trooping all together;
Green jacket, red cap, And white owl's feather!
��GEORGE MACDONALD
777 That Holy Thing
SHEY all were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high: Thou cam'st, a little baby thing That made a woman cry.
��T
��O Son of Man, to right my lot
Naught but Thy presence can avail; Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea Thy sail'
My how or when Thou wilt not heed,
But come down Thine own secret s*tair, That Thou mayst answer all my need Yea, every bygone prayer.
WALTER CHALMERS SMITH
77# Glenaradale
THERE is no fire of the crackling boughs On the hearth of our fathers, There is no lowing of brown-eyed cows
On the green meadows, Nor do the maidens whisper vows In the still gloaming, Glenaradale.
�� �
