Some courteous angel, tell me where,
What distant lands this unknown fair,
Or distant seas, contain?
Swift as the wheel of nature rolls,
I'd fly to meet, and mingle souls,
And wear the joyful chain.

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-
Sweet Kitty o' the Clyde.

I saw the boatman spread a sail,
And, while his daftness noting,
The boat was upset by the gale-
I saw sweet Kitty floating;
1 plung'd into the silver wave,
Wi' Cupid for my guide,

And thought my heart weel lost to save
Sweet Kitty o' the Clyde.

But Kitty's aye a high-born fair,

A lowly naine I carry,

Nor can wi' lordly Thanes compare,
Who woo the maid to marry;
But she na scornfu' looks on me,

And joy may yet betide,

For hope dares flatter mine may be
Sweet Kitty o' the Clyde.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.-By W. J. Mickle.

BUT are you sure the news is true?
And are you sure he's well?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye lass, fling by your wheel.

There's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a';"

There's nae luck about the house,
When our good man's awa.

Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?

Gi' me my cloak, I'll down the key,
And see him come ashore.

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,
And Jack his Sunday's coat.
There's nae luck, &c.

Mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockings white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our good man,
He likes to see them braw.
There's nae luck, &c.

There are twa hens into the crip,
I've fed this month or mair;
Make haste to throw their necks about,
That Colin well may fare.

There's nae luck, &c.

Bring down to me my bigonet,
My bishop-satin gown,

And then gae tell the Bailie's wife
That Colin's come to town.
There's nae luck, &c.

My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockings of pearl blue,
And a' to pleasure our good man,
For he's both leal and true.

There's nae luck, &c.

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue,
His breath's like cauler air,
His very tread has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.
There's nae luck, &c.

And will I see his face again?
And will hear him speak?
I'm down right dizzy wi' the joy,
And e'en I'm like to greet.
There's nae luck, &c.

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,
And the heart and the hand, all thy own to the last.

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,
Where fortune bade me roam;
'Mid splendid scenes of joy or toil
I ne'er forgot my home!

Sweet, sweet home! sweet, sweet home,
Where'er I stray, where er I roam,
I ne'er forgot my home, sweet home,
I ne'er forgot my home.

But ah! what must the captive feel,
Whose thoughts alone are free!
His pallid looks and sighs reveal
How much he pines for thee.
Sweet, sweet home, &c.

JOY TO THE VICTORS!-By Sir Walter Scott.

Joy to the victors! the sons of old Aspen!
Joy to the race of the battle and scar!
Glory's proud garland triumphantly grasping;
Generous in peace and victorious in war.
Honor acquiring,
Valor inspiring,

Burning, resistless, through foemen they go :
War-axes wielding,

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!
Joy to the heroes that gain'd the bold day!
Health to our wounded, in agony gasping;
Peace to our brethren that fell in the fray!
Boldly this morning,

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,
Bend we, gay victors, triumphant away!

There each fond damsel her gallant youth clasping,
Shall wipe from his forehead the stains of the fray.
Listening the prancing

Of horses advancing;

E'en now on the turrets our maidens appear.
Love our hearts warming,

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,
Cries, Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry.'-

'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water!'-
'Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.-
'And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
'His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?'
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
'I'll go, my chief-I'm ready ::