blue een, where tears may now be seen;
And oh! that we were to be married again,
Married again, married again,
And oh! that we were to be married again.

"The grass it is wet, John, the wind it is keen,
Our claes they are worn, and our shune they are thin;
Our shune they are thin, and the waters come in;
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again,
Summer again, summer again,
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There was joy in our youth, John, at wish's command,
We danced and we sang, and we ilka gate ran,
But now dule and sorrow's on ilka hand;
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again,
Summer again, summer again,
And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again.

"There's graves in yon howf, John, and hillocks o' green,
Where our bairns lie sleeping that left us alane,
And they're waiting for us till we gae to creep in;
And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again,
Summer again, summer again,
And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again."

When _she_ had crooned her chant, I heard _him_ say,
With sobbing voice and deep heart-heaving sigh,
"Dry up thae tears, my Jean, for things away,
Time's but a watch-tick in eternity;
We darena sing of earth, but lift our prayer
To Him whose promises are never vain,
That we may dwell in yonder Eden fair,
And see youth's summer blooming green again."

Then rose a prayer to Bethel's Lord and King
That He would lead them through this vale of woe,
And to the promised land his children bring,
Where Babel's streams in living waters flow.
They left: again all silence in the dell
Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing,
Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell,
While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.

[Footnote A: Some readers may recognise in the old woman's song
portions of an ancient ditty that used to be chanted in a
wailing cadence in several parts of Scotland. I suspect the song
as a whole is lost--the more to be regretted for its sweet
simplicity and melodious wail (so far as judged in the
fragments), which in a modern song would be viewed as weakness
or affectation. Indeed, the modes of thought and feeling that
belong to what is called advanced civilisation are impatient of
these things except as rude relics of yet untutored minds; and
the pleasure with which they are accepted has in it perhaps a
grain of pity for those that didn't know better than produce
them. Yet, as regards mere poetical feeling at least, the nearer