TO MY SWEETHEART.

Tuapeka Times, Volume XXV, Issue 4254, 3 July 1895, Page 6

TO MY SWEETHEART.

The following lines are decidedly clever, but they are not written by Robert Burns, although ascribed to him. Can any of our readers give the name of the author ? The sun lies clasped in the amber clouds Half hidden in the sea, And o'er the_ sands the flowing tide Comes racing merrily. The hawthorn hedge is white with bloom, The wind is soft and lown, And sad and still you wiitch by me, Your hand clasped in mine own. Oh, let the curtain bide, Jessie, And raise my head awee, And let the bonnie setting sun Glint in on you and me. The world looks fair and bright, Jessie, Near loving hearts like you, But puirtith's blast sifts summer's love, And makes such friendship's few. Oh, Jessie ! in the dreary night I clasp my burning hands Upon those throbbing, sleepless lids, O'er eyes like glowing brands ; And wonder in my weary brain If haply, when I'm dead, My auld boon-friends, for love of me, Will gie my bairnies bread. Oh, did the poor not help the poor, Each in their simple way, With humble gifts and kindly wordsGod pity them, I say ! For many a man who clasp'd my hand With pledges o'er the bowl, When the wine halo passed away, Proved but a niggard soul. Oh, blessed thought, midst our despair, Ihere is a promise made, That in the day the rough wind blows The east wind shall be stayed. A few short years, and those I love Will come again to me, In that bright realm without a sun— That land without a sea. Oh, wilt thou gang o' nichts, Jessie, To my forsaken nearth, And be, as thou hast been to me, The truest friend on earth? Sac sweetly in your linne voice You'll sing my weans to rest. While Jennie leans her weary head Upon your loving breast. Ah ! what is fame ? Its wreath of bays Cools not the fevered brow. Will 't tell his name in coming day Who whistled at the plough, And wrote a. simple song or two For happier hearts to sing, Among the shining sheaves of corn, Or round the household ring ? Yet would I prize the bubble fame, If my own artless lays Bore thy sweet deeds and lovingness For future time to praise. Time soul ! I bless the poet skill Which won a friend like thee, Whose love, 'twixt love of home and Heaven, Is with me constantly.