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THERE is no flock, however watch'd and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
But has one vacant chair !
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead ;
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapours
Amid these earthly damps.
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no death ! What seems so is transition.
This life of mortal breath
Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead, the child of our affection,
But gone unto that school
And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her ;
For when with raptures wild
She will not be a child ;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace ;
Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous wild emotion,
And anguish long suppress'd,
That cannot be at rest, —
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay ;
The grief that must have way.
OH, leeze me on my spinning wheel,
, And leeze me on my rock and reel; Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien, And haps me fiel and warm at e'en.
I'll set me down and sing and spin,
On ilka hand the burnies trot,
On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,