All being well, I'll come to you,
Sweetheart, before the year is through;
And we shall find so much to do,
So much to tell.

I read your letter through and through,
And dreamt of all we'd say and do,
Till in my heart the thought of you
Rang like a bell.

Now the bell tolls, my love, for you;
For long before the year is through
You've gone where there is naught to do
And naught to tell.

Yet mayn't I find when life is through
The best is still to say and do,
When I at last may come to you,
All being well?

All around old Chattanooga,
War had left his wasteful trace;
And the rebels, quelled and baffled,
Freed reluctantly their slaves.

On his spacious, cool, veranda —
Stood McNealy, gaunt and tall,
With bowed head, and long arms folded,
Pond'ring on his blacks, enthralled.

Years, and years, he'd been their master,
Harsh and stern his reign had been;
Many an undeserving lashing,
He had rudely given them.

All his life he'd been a despot;
Ruling all with iron hand;
Never till this deadly conflict,

All around him Patmos lies,
Who hath spirit-gifted eyes,
Who his happy sight can suit
To the great and the minute.
Doubt not but he holds in view
A new earth and heaven new;
Doubt not but his ear doth catch
Strain nor voice nor reed can match:
Many a silver, sphery note
Shall within his hearing float.
All around him Patmos lies,
Who unto God's priestess flies:
Thou, O Nature, bid him see,
Through all guises worn by thee,
A divine apocalypse.
Manifold his fellowships:
Now the rocks their archives ope;

All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,
All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
I walked with one I loved two and thirty years ago.
All along the valley, while I walked today,
The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed,
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

All alone in my little cell
with no one for company,
I love this place of pilgrimage
now while I still have life.

A hut remote and hidden
for repenting of all sin,
with upright conscience, unafraid
in the face of holy Heaven.

With a body that good habits
made holy, treading it down,
and eyes worn out and tearful
with penance for my desires,

with weak, subdued desires
and denial of the wretched world,
with innocent, eager thoughts,
so let us sue to God.

With sincere lamentations
up to cloudy Heaven,

Algy met a bear,
The bear was bulgy,
The bulge was Algy.

If I had a beau,
For a soldier who'd go,
Do you think I'd say no?
No, no, not I;
When his red coat I saw,
Not a sigh would it draw,
But I'd give him eclat
For his bravery.
If an army of Amazons e'er came in play,
As a dashing white sergeant I'd march away.

When my lover he has gone,
Do you think I'd take on,
Sit moping, forlorn?
No, no, not I.
His fame my concern,
How my bosom would burn
When I saw him return

Whan Willie was in his saddle set,
And all his merry men wi him,
" Stay still, stay still, my merry men all,
I 've forgot something behind me.

" Gie me God's blessing an yours, mither,
To hae me on to Gamery;
Gie me God's blessing an yours, mither,
To gae to the bride-stool wi me."

" I 'll gie ye God's blessing an mine, Willie,
To hae you on to Gamery;
Ye 's hae God's blessing an mine, Willie,
To gae to the bride-stool wi you.

. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
" But Gamery it is wide and deep,

Alberta, lovely little dame,
Of thee I'm thinking ever;
Oh, little witch, with eyes of sloe!
Thou haunts me, wheresoe'er I go,
And grants a respite, never;
A victim of thy spell I be,
A bondman, robbed of liberty:
Show quarter now, and pity me,
O, fair Alberta.

Thy solemn eyes, are hid from sight
By dark-fringed, dusky, curtains;
Oh, lift thy orbs, up unto mine,
And let one ray of love light shine,
To make my faint hopes certain;
Oh, from suspense, and misery,
Let but a frank smile set me free,

Alas! what shul we freres do,
Now lewed men cun Holy Writ?
Alle aboute where I go
They aposen me of it.

Then wondreth me that it is so,
How lewed men cun alle wit.
Sertely, we be undo
But if we mo amende it.

I trowe the devil brought it aboute,
To write the Gospel in Englishe,
For lewed men ben nowe so stout
That they yeven us neither fleshe ne fishe.

When I come into a shope
For to say, " In principio,"
They bidene me, " Go forth, lewed " Pope " ,"
And worche and win my silver so.