LINES TO AGNES BAILLIE ON HER BIRTHDAY . DEAR Agnes , gleamed with joy and dashed with tears , O'er us have glided almost sixty years Since we on Bothwell's bonny braes were seen , By those whose eyes long closed in death have been , Two tiny imps , who scarcely stooped to gather The slender hair-bell on the purple heather ; No taller than the foxglove's spiky stem , That dew of morning studs with silvery gem . Then every butterfly that crossed our view With joyful shout was greeted as it flew , And moth and lady-bird and beetle bright Then as we paddled barefoot , side by side , Among the sunny shallows of the Clyde The Manse of Bothwell was at some considerable distance from the Clyde , but the two little girls were sometimes sent there in summer to bathe and wade about . Minnows or spotted paur with twinkling fin , Swimming in mazy rings the pool within , A thrill of gladness through our bosoms sent , Seen in the power of early wonderment . A long perspective to my mind appears , Looking behind me to that line of years , And yet through every stage I still can trace Thy visioned form , from childhood's morning grace To woman's early bloom , changing how soon ! To the expressive glow of woman's noon ; And now to what thou art , in comely age , Active and ardent . Let what will engage Thy present moment , whether hopeful seeds In garden-plat thou sow , or noxious weeds From the fair flower remove , or ancient lore In chronicle or legend rare explore , Or on the parlour hearth with kitten play , Stroking its tabby sides , or take thy way To gain with hasty steps some cottage door , On helpful errand to the neighbouring poor , Active and ardent , to my fancy's eye , Thou still art young in spite of time gone by . Though oft of patience brief and temper keen , Well may it please me , in life's latter scene , To think what now thou art and long to me hast been . 'Twas thou who woo'dst me first to look Upon the page of printed book , That thing by me abhorred , and with address Didst win me from my thoughtless idleness , When all too old become with bootless haste In fitful sports the precious time to waste . Thy love of tale and story was the stroke At which my dormant fancy first awoke , And ghosts and witches in my busy brain Arose in sombre show , a motley train . This new-found path attempting , proud was I , Lurking approval on thy face to spy , Or hear thee say , as grew thy roused attention , " What ! is this story all thine own invention ? " Then , as advancing through this mortal span , Our intercourse with the mixed world began , Thy fairer face and sprightlier courtesy , ( A truth that from my youthful vanity Lay not concealed ) did for the sisters twain , Where'er we went , the greater favour gain ; While , but for thee , vexed with its tossing tide , I from the busy world had shrunk aside . And now in later years , with better grace Thou helpest me still to hold a welcome place With those whom nearer neighbourhood have made The friendly cheerers of our evening shade . With thee my humours , whether grave or gay , Or gracious or untoward , have their way . Silent if dull — O precious privilege ! I sit by thee ; or if , culled from the page Of some huge , ponderous tome which , but thyself , None e'er had taken from its dusty shelf , Thou read me curious passages to speed The winter night , I take but little heed And thankless say " I cannot listen now , " 'Tis no offence ; albeit , much do I owe To these , thy nightly offerings of affection , Drawn from thy ready talent for selection ; For still it seemed in thee a natural gift The lettered grain from lettered chaff to sift . By daily use and circumstance endeared , Things are of value now that once appeared Of no account , and without notice past , Which o'er dull life a simple cheering cast ; To hear thy morning steps the stair descending , Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending ; After each stated nightly absence , met To see thee by the morning table set , Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream Which sends from saucered cup its fragrant steam ; To see thee cheerly on the threshold stand , On summer morn , with trowel in thy hand For garden-work prepared ; in winter's gloom From thy cold noonday walk to see thee come , In furry garment lapt , with spattered feet And by the fire resume thy wonted seat ; Aye even o'er things like these , soothed age has thrown A sober charm they did not always own . As winter-hoarfrost makes minutest spray Of bush or hedge-weed sparkle to the day , In magnitude and beauty , which bereaved Of such investment , eye had ne'er perceived . The change of good and evil to abide , As partners linked , long have we side by side Our earthly journey held , and who can say How near the end of our united way ? By nature's course not distant ; sad and 'reft Will she remain , — the lonely pilgrim left . If thou art taken first , who can to me Like sister , friend and home-companion be ? Or who , of wonted daily kindness shorn , Shall feel such loss , or mourn as I shall mourn ? And if I should be fated first to leave This earthly house , though gentle friends may grieve , And he above them all , so truly proved A friend and brother , long and justly loved , There is no living wight , of woman born , Who then shall mourn for me as thou wilt mourn . Thou ardent , liberal spirit ! quickly feeling The touch of sympathy and kindly dealing With sorrow or distress , for ever sharing The unhoarded mite , nor for to morrow caring , — Accept , dear Agnes , on thy natal day , An unadorned but not a careless lay . Nor think this tribute to thy virtues paid From tardy love proceeds , though long delayed . Words of affection , howsoe'er expressed , The latest spoken still are deemed the best : Few are the measured rhymes I now may write ; These are , perhaps , the last I shall endite .