ortune's sunshine we should feel ower proud an' hie,
An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,
Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

WIFIE, COME HAME.

Wifie, come hame,
My couthie wee dame!
Oh, but ye 're far awa,
Wifie, come hame!
Come wi' the young bloom o' morn on thy broo,
Come wi' the lown star o' love in thine e'e,
Come wi' the red cherries ripe on thy mou',
A' glist wi' balm, like the dew on the lea.
Come wi' the gowd tassels fringin' thy hair,
Come wi' thy rose cheeks a' dimpled wi' glee,
Come wi' thy wee step, and wifie-like air,
Oh, quickly come, and shed blessings on me!

Wifie, come hame,
My couthie wee dame!
Oh, my heart wearies sair,
Wifie, come hame!
Come wi' our love pledge, our dear little dawtie,
Clasping my neck round, an' clamb'rin' my knee;
Come let me nestle and press the wee pettie,
Gazing on ilka sweet feature o' thee.
Oh, but the house is a cauld hame without ye,
Lanely and eerie 's the life that I dree;
Oh, come awa', an' I 'll dance round about ye,
Ye 'll ne'er again win frae my arms till I dee.

THE BIRDIE SURE TO SING IS AYE THE GORBEL O' THE NEST.

Oh, dinna look ye pridefu' doon on a' aneath your ken,
For he wha seems the farthest but aft wins the farthest ben;
And whiles the doubie o' the school tak's lead o' a' the rest,
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The cauld gray misty morn aft brings a sultry sunny day,
The trees wha's buds are latest are the langest to decay;
The heart sair tried wi' sorrow aye endures the sternest test--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

The wee, wee stern that glints in heaven, may be a lowin' sun,
Though like a speck o' light, scarce seen amid the welkin dun;
The humblest sodger on the field may win the warrior's crest--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

Then dinna be impatient wi' your bairnie when he 's slow,
And dinna scorn the humble, though the world deem them low;
The hindmost and the feeblest aft become the first and best--
The birdie sure to sing is aye the gorbel o' the nest.

CREEP AFORE YE