BALLACHULISH: 1884.

Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters,

May the music of your song

Silence all the dark forebodings

That have plagued the world too long;

He who made your voices tuneful

Comes to right the wrong.

Warble on, ye feathered songsters,

Lift your praises loud and high,

Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,

In the grove and in the sky

Make your music, shame our dumbness,

Till we make reply.

Children's laughter is a music

Flowing from a hidden spring,

Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,

Well is worth discovering;

Slowly dies the heart that knows not

How to laugh and sing.

Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer

Is the Heart of God Most High;

All sweet voices are the echoes

That in varied tones reply

To that Voice which through the ages

Sings earth's lullaby.

Oftentimes a sleepless infant

For a season frets and cries:

All at once an unseen finger

Curtains up the little eyes.

So the cradled child He nurses

God will tranquillise.

His the all-enfolding Presence;

Oh, what tutelage it brings

To the little lives that ripen

‘ Neath the shelter of its wings;

God's delays are no denials,

As He waits He sings!

They alone are seers and singers

Who invalidate despair

By the lofty hopes they cherish,

By the gallant deeds they dare,

By the ceaseless aspirations

Of a life of prayer.

Brothers, sisters, lift your voices,

May the rapture of your song

Put to flight the sad misgivings

That have vexed the world too long;

God would have us share the triumph

That shall right the wrong.