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Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses, O!

There's nought but care on every han',
In every hour that passes, O:
What signifies the life o' man,
And 'twere na for the lasses, O!

The warl'ly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;

And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a canny hour at een,
My arms about my dearie, O,
And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O;
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw
He dearly loved the lasses, O

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ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,

The sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!

Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm pass'd by

Saying, We are twins in death, proud sun,

Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years

Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will ;--

Yet mourn not I thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownèd king of day :

For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,

Or mown in battle by the sword,

Like grass beneath the scythe.

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sunless agonies,

Behold me not expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of nature spreads my pall-
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave its heavenly spark ;

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