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say my parte is leist, The wyfe said, speid, the kaill ar soddin. And als the laverok is fust and loddin ;

When ye haif done, tak hame the brok ; The rost wes tuche, sa wer thay bodin ;

Syn gaid togiddir bayth Jynny and Jok.



And art thou gone, for ever gone,

Frae friends, and love, and me ! And will nae mair the witching glance

Beam frae thy bonny e'e ?

And is thy heart for ever cauld,

And can it feel nae mair!
Nae mair be glad at ither's joys,

In ither's sorrows share ?

Alas ! 'tis cauld, for ever cauld

And why does life warm mine ! Oh! that it too had ceas'd to beat,

And lay in death wi' thine.

But soon, ay soon, my wish will come,

To thee I'm hastening fast ;
My first, my fondest thought was thine,

And thine will be my last.



AIR.-“ Cuishlih ma chree."

Come o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me,
Mine thro' sunshine, storm and snows!

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul Burns the same, where'er it goes. Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not!

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden! with me,
Come wherever the wild winds blow;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.

Is not the sea

Made for the free,
Land for courts and chains alone ?

Here we are slaves ;

But on the waves, Love and Liberty's all our own ! No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us !

Then come o'er the sea,

Maiden ! with me,
Come wherever the wild winds blow;

Seasons may roll,

But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.



Weep no more by shading tree,

Weep no more by hallow'd stream ; Wend thee to yon cloistered wall,

Lighted by the taper's beam.

Make thy couch the lonely brake,

Shun the lover's rosy bower, Ne'er wilt thou with Knight thou lov’dst,

Pass the noon or twilight hour.

Far from bow'rs of bliss and thee,

Far in wild and desert land, Deep he lies the turf below,

Fallen by a heathen hand.

Dance no more in gilded hall,

When the light of day is done, Thine is now the lonely cell

Deck'd in weeds of cloister'd nun.

Sweet the tale fond love had told,

Well that tale thou lov’dst to hear; Silent is the voice for aye,

Never more to charm thy ear.

Soft she sang her vesper hymn,

At the close of curfew bell, Weeping, sought her lover's bower,

In the hollow winding dell.

Fancy told full many a tale,

Visions of an ancient day, Like the phantom of the night,

Quickly, quickly fled away.

Soft as was the breath of night,

Soft was Emma's slumbering sigh;
All she lov'd on earth was fled,

All she wish'd was then to die.



Tho' the winter of age wreathes her snow on his head,
And the blooming effulgence of summer is fled,
Tho' the voice that was sweet, as the harp's softest string,
Be trem’lous, and low as the zephyrs of spring,

Yet say not the Bard has turned old.

Tho' the casket that holds the rich jewel we prize,
Attracts not the gaze of inquisitive eyes;
Yet the gem that's within may be lovely and bright,
As the smiles of the morn or the stars of the night,

Then say not the Bard has turned old.

* We feel the greatest pleasure in being authorised to place this poem among the number of our originals. It is a production which docs honour to the author, and we are only sorry to say that his delicacy has prevented him, at least for the present, from receiving this honour by the concealment of his name.

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