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If ye a highland laddie meet

With een of bonny blue,
And he, wi voice sae soft and sweet,

Should for thy favour sue,
Ah! think him like the rose!

Though blooming, fresh and fair,
Deceitfully it glows,

For thorns, sharp thorns, are there!
The lad with een of brightest blue

Once loved poor lowland Jane,
She, simple lass, believed him true,

But, ah! the faithless swain,
She found him like the rose !

Thongh blooming, fresh and fair,
Deceitfully it glows,

And thorns, sharp thorns, are there!
Then lassies all, beware of love,

Though smiling is the boy,
Though sweet at first his flatteries prove,

You'll find each promised joy,
Alas! is like the rose!

Though blooming, fresh aud fair,
Deceitfully it glows,
And thorns, sharp thorns, are there!




On hearing the Bagpipe in the streets of Edinburgh.
TO no whiffling reed Albyn's sons ever listen,

'Tis for no feeble purpose their strong blast is blown, In tinselled parade, they care not to glisten .

To conquer or die, is the motto they own.
Full oft has their Slogan* the foeman's heart Aonted,

Full oft have their tartans in battle front waved; 'Twas “Scotland for ever !'' at Waterloo shouted, That ended the strife and the nations were saved.

CHARLOTTE T. S. V.' * Slogan. The war tune of the Highlanders.

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AND what is life! a fleeting sbade

That glides along in swift decay!
And what is man! so wondrous made,

But image of an autumn day!
A mist obscures his infant years,

His dawning life is scarce discerned;
And what his youth, but doubts and fears?

His age, but sorrows hardly earned ?
So Autumn's morn with mists obscured

Leaves hope there's yet a golden day; But Sol remains in clouds immured,

And scarce vouchsafes one cheering ray. And if the radiant god appear,

And gild with smiles the rising morn; Evening steals on, both dank and drear,

And night swift follows-dark, forlorn. So if in manhood's riper day,

Our sun should shine with lustre bright, Declining years obscure its ray,

And age leaves nought but darksome night. And is life but a fleeting shade?

And man but like an Autumn day? Man, that's so fair, so wondrous made,

Born but to blossom and decay? O no! a better hope we have!

When Autumn's gone, and Winter past, A Spring of life shall cheer the grave,

And man, immortal, rise at last. No mist shall then his morn obscure,

No clouded sun withhold its ray, No evening dank, no night endure,

But his, one bright eternal day. A. T.

PHYLLIS ne'er weeps with either eye,
And would you know the reason why?

Listen and you shall know:
Age! envious age! took one away;
The other (oh, I fear to say)
Was blinded by a blow.

R. T.

WHAT is that Smile-that o'er the cheek

Of artless, blooming childhood strays;
That revels in the dimple sleek;

That charms the mother's tender gaze? 'Tis the bright sun of April's morn,

That rises with unsullied ray:
Nor marks the clouds that swift are borue

To wrap in shades the future day!
What is that soft, that languid Smile,

That mingles with a tender sigh: Light spreads the timid blush the while,

And sweetly sinks the melting eye? "Tis the bright dew-drop on the rose,

Sweet remnant of the early shower, That will its ripened leaves unclose,

And to full fragrance spread the Hower! What is that Smile-whose rapturous glow

Passion's impetuous breath inspires, Whilst Pleasure's gaudy blossoms blow,

And the eye beams with guilty fires ? 'Tis the volcano's baleful blaze,

That pours around a fatal light; Whose victim dies, that stops to gaze;

Whence safety is but found in flight!
What is that sad, that transient Smile,

That dawns upon the lips of wo;
That checks the deep-drawn sigh awhile,

And stays the tear that starts to flow? 'Tis but a veil cast o'er the beart, .

When youth's gay dreams have passed away; When joy’s faint lingering rays depart,

And the last gleams of hope decay! What is that bright, that fearful Smile,

Quick flashing o'er the brow of care, When fades each fruit of mental toil,

And nought remains to check despair ?

'Tis the wild lurid lightning's gleam,

Swift bursting from a stormy cloud; That spreads a bright destructive beam,

Then sinks into its sable shroud!
What is that Smile-calm, fixed at last,

On the hoar brow of reverend age,
When the world's changing scenes are past,

And nearly closed life's varied page? 'Tis the rich glowing western beam,

Bright spreading o'er the darkening skies ; That shews, by its mild parting gleam,

A cloudless, heavenly morn shall rise!

THE INQUIETUDE OF MAN. THE sun is sinking in the west,

The groves the evening zephyrs fan,
The weary beasts prepare for rest,

And all is calm but Man.
Poor restless creature of an hour,

His longest life is but a span,
And yet that span fell cares devour,

For never calm is Man.
Though bounteous Nature all has given,

To make him blest on reason's plan,
A rebel 'gainst the will of Heaven,

Still never calm is Man,

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TO THE MOON. OH, lovely Goddess of the night,

As oft in pensive mood I stray
Thro' groves illumined by thy light,

I hate the glare of day.
I love to wander 'mong the hills,

When thou shed'st wide thy softening ray
O'er trees, and towers, and gliding rills,

More pleasing far than day.
And while I breathe the air of Even,

Let me my grateful homage pay,
To Him, who for our joy has given

The night as well as day. . J. R.


ud before

TO LAURA. SWEET Babe! as yet the sombre clouds of night Enwrap thy infant mind in deepest gloom; Anon shall break the morn of reason's light, And, slow advancing, every sense illume, Till all its sunlike empire it assume; Chasing old custom's cloud before its ray, Gilding the inner darkness of the tomb, Throwing o'er earthly things so bright a day, The soul shall feel their worth-and sigh to be away.

As the lone prisoner within his cell Sighs for the coming of the morning hour, Within its cell of clay the soul doth dwell, And pants to escape from its benumbing power. As sunbeams glancing thwart the captive's tower, Cheer with their light the wo-fraught heart within, So when on earth the clouds of sorrow lower, Reason's pure light unfolds a lovelier scene, Where sighs are never heard, where tears are never seen.

W. T. B.

On bekolding a beautiful but abandoned Female.
IN a form of such beauty can evil reside!

Can a face of such loveliness countenance sin !---
Yes---foul is the demon yon structure doth hide,

And dire are the passions that rankle within! 'Tis the curse of creation :---for now as I strayed

To the vase where my favourite ranunculus stood, Lo! entwined round its root a young serpent was laid,

And the pride of my garden was seized for its food. When the parent-tree withers in summer's warm light,

How the green generation partake the decay! Though their fruit and their foliage be blushing and

bright, On a sudden they languish and fade fast away. Thus if virtue decline in the glebe of the heart,

Every blossom of purity perisheth too: For 'tis virtue alone can those rich blooms impart, * Which delight with their sweetness, and charm with their hue!


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