Mary And Jean

How oft nt dusk iliil Burna along The bnnks of Ayr appear, A melancholy ohild of S(.i!,r, Mnsing amld a mouriiful tlirong Of recolleotions dearf The klndly after yeurs had healed The wound within his bruast. Fair Jeau's devoted love revealed That hnppiness which death concealed When Mary went to rest. Be fondly scanned his bairns at play Aboïit the cottage door, Toiled stoutly onward day by day, Obedient to honor's svay, Which boxmd him evermore. And yet mayhap in some lone place Where Ayr's elear waters roll His dreams at eve recalled the grace Of sainted Highland Mary's face - The mistress of his soul. He loved, and who that loves today Shall grudge the pensive hour When, ciad in sorrow's mantle gray, He paused beside Ayr's quiet way To woo oblivion's power? What dreams were his of pleasures deep That he might nover know! Perhaps, though years his secret keep. Thinking of hor who feil asleep, He deeined 'twas botter so.