Some courteous angel, tell me where, SWEET KITTY O' THE CLYDE. A BOAT danc'd on Clyde's bonny stream, When winds were rudely blowing; There sat what might the goddess seem Of the waves beneath her flowing; But no a mortal fair was she, Surpassing a' beside, And youths speir'd her choice to be- I saw the boatman spread a sail, And thought my heart weel lost to save But Kitty's aye a high-born fair, A lowly naine I carry, Nor can wi' lordly Thanes compare, And joy may yet betide, For hope dares flatter mine may be THE MARINER'S WIFE.-By W. J. Mickle. BUT are you sure the news is true? There's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck about the house, Is this a time to think o' wark, Gi' me my cloak, I'll down the key, There's nae luck about the house, &c. Rise up and mak' a clean fireside, Put on the muckle pot; Gi' little Kate her cotton gown, Mak' their shoon as black as slaes, There are twa hens into the crip, There's nae luck, &c. Bring down to me my bigonet, And then gae tell the Bailie's wife My Turkey slippers I'll put on, There's nae luck, &c. Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue, And will I see his face again? COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.-By T. Moore. COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, Though the herd has fled from thee thy home still is here; Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, Oh; what was love made for, if 'tis not the same, Through joy and through torment, 'thro' glory and shame, I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. Thou hast call'd me thy angel, in moments of bliss, Still thy angel I'll be, 'midst the horrors of this; Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps I'll pursue And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too. SWEET HOME. WHEN wand'ring far on distant soil, Sweet, sweet home! sweet, sweet home, But ah! what must the captive feel, JOY TO THE VICTORS!-By Sir Walter Scott. Joy to the victors! the sons of old Aspen! Burning, resistless, through foemen they go : Broken ranks yielding, Till from the battle proud Roderick retiring, Yields in wild rout the fair palm to his foe. Joy to each warrior, true follower of Aspen! Roderick's power scorning, Well for their chieftain their blades did they wield; Joy bless'd them dying, As Maltingen flying, Low laid his banners, our conquest adorning, Their death clouded eye-balls descried on the field! Now to our home, the proud mansion of Aspen, There each fond damsel her gallant youth clasping, Of horses advancing; E'en now on the turrets our maidens appear. Songs the night charming, Round goes the grape in the goblet gay dancing; Love, wine, and song, our bithe evening shall cheer. LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the highlands bound, 'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, |