There was a time when it was count… To be a patriot—whether by the zea… Of peaceful labour for the country… Or by the courage in her cause to… FOR KING AND COUNTRY was a…

Beyond the Cheviots and the Tweed… Beyond the Firth of Forth, My memory returns at speed To Scotland and the North. For still I keep, and ever shall,

Children of earth are we, Lovers of land and sea, Of hill, of brook, of tree, Of all things fair; Of all things dark or bright,

You like the trifling triolet: Well, here are three or four. Unless your likings I forget, You like the trifling triolet. Against my conscience I abet

Gone is the glory from the hills, The autumn sunshine from the mere, Which mourns for the declining yea… In all her tributary rills. A sense of change obscurely chills

This morning, while we sat in talk Of spring and apple-bloom, Lo! Death stood in the garden wal… And peered into the room. Your back was turned, you did not…

It was many and many a year ago, In a city by the sea, That a man there lived whom I hap… By the name of Andrew M’Crie; And this man he slept in another r…

Brown was my friend, and faithful—… He came to see me in the twilight… I rose politely and invited him To take a seat—how heavily he sat! He sat upon the sofa, where my hat…

The air is dark and fragrant With memories of a shower, And sanctified with stillness By this most holy hour. The leaves forget to whisper

The rain had fallen, the Poet aro… He passed through the doorway into… A strong wind lifted his hat from… And he uttered some words that wer… And then he started to follow the…

If a pleasant lawn there grow By the showers caressed, Where in all the seasons blow Flowers gaily dressed, Where by handfuls one may win

On Her Marriage As those who hear a sweet bird sin… And love each song it sings the be… Grieve when they see it taking win… And flying to another nest:

Whene’er I try to read a book, Across the page your face will loo… And then I neither know nor care What sense the printed words may b… At night when I would go to sleep…

When one is young and eager, A bejant and a boy, Though his moustache be meagre, That cannot mar his joy When at the Competition

[After Wordsworth.] It was a phantom of delight When first it gleamed upon my sigh… A scholarly distinction, sent To be a student’s ornament.