Page:Poems Douglas.djvu/82

The widow an' daughter, in fu'ness o' joy,
Seem'd wrapt in enchantment a word micht destroy,
Saein wonder they gazed at ilk ither's white face,
Then clung heart to heart in a silent embrace,
Grazed again at the table, where, heaped up an' bricht,
The yellow goud glistened fu' plain on their sicht;
But could it be real? sae dream-like was a',
Micht it no like some fairy goud vanish awa'?
No—they ventured a touch; 'twas substantial an' true,
An' they sank on their knees wi' hearts gratitude fu';
Frae that day their trials o' poortith were o'er,
An' their faces beamed bricht with the joy smile once more,
An' ilk year they haud it—the puir o' the place
Count wi' joy on the day o' the village disgrace.

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The Souvenir.

I have a little souvenir, bestowed by infant hands,
Nor one would dream the spell it holds as on the shelf it stands;
It is a tiny mimic vase, so perfect and so chaste,
That fancy in some fairy hall ne'er fail to have it placed.
'Tis lily-shaped and lily-hued, embossed with gold and blue;
So small, one rose bent o'er its brim would hide it all from view;