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Hast thou felt thy bosom bound

With sacred rapture at the sound
Of waters, winding clear among
The wildwood, sending forth a song
Mournfully, and soft, and deep,

Like maiden sighing through her sleep,-
Murmuring till the flow'ret slept,
While ever and anon it dipt

Its fair head on the streamlet's breast,
Which heaved, and would not let it rest?
Has the hour of deep midnight

Full of love and feeling found thee,
Alone upon the mountain's height,

Where nought but stars were burning round thee, Beautiful as angels' eyes,

Beaming through the deep blue skies?

And where the brightest beam'd and blazed,
Hast thou turn'd thee round, and gazed
Long and lingering, till you felt
Thy heart into their glory melt?

If through thy bosom there hath rush'd
Such a tide of feelings strong,
Rejoice! for then thy soul hath known

The sweetest hour of love and song!

A natural is at all times superior to an artificial man, and aristocratical as our notions may be in some things, nothing delights us more than an effusion which evidently seems to come from the heart, and is full of the real character of him who pens it. Hence we introduce with confidence the following letter and poem to our readers, which we are sure they cannot peruse without

much amusement:

To the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. Dear Sir, I am no much accustomed to write to folk I never saw, and, therefore, I may be guilty o' an impropriety in addressing you in this way; but as I am ane o' yer readers, and hae been in gey familiar terms wi' ye, even in your ain immortal Slippers, and mair especially as ye hae been aften, and in divers ways, a solace and a source o' muckle enjoyment to me when I would otherwise hae been dull eneuch, I consider ye in the light o' an especial frien' and weelwisher to me, as weel as to the lave o' your readers; and ye maun therefore just excuse me for ca'ing ye dear sir, though peradventure I may thereby outrage the rules o' gentility, with whilk, I maun confess, I had never ony opportunity o' becoming acquaint; and ye maunna construe my familiarity into ony lack o' that respect due to ane o' your transcendent abeelities. Ye maun ken, then, as I said afore, that I read the Leeterary Journal; but before it comes my length, it has gaen through at least a dizzen han's, and by that time it bears undeniable marks o' having been weel thumm'd and profoondly studied. It is at least a month auld when I get it, and, after perusing it carefully twice ower, I lay it by-black and creeshy although it be-intending, if I can spare as muckle o' the needfu', to hae it yelegantly bun', an' to lay it up on the shelf aside the Bible and Burns's Poems. I hae aye wished, sin' ever I ken'd a prented beuk frae a copy o' ells or cloopies, to see something o' my ain composing in prent: but how could I ever expeck that ony prenter, or yeditor, or the like, wad tak ony notice o' what might emanate frae the brain or the pen o' a hurkling mechanic like mysell, until yer Number o' the 3d o' July cam into my han', whar I saw a letter frae the Cowgate o' Edinbro, wi' a poem about a Spin Maggie. Thinks I to mysell, Thomas Brownlee, what a lucky chiel ye are, to see no only yer letter and yer poem in sic a glorious periodical as the Leeterary Journal, but to be honourably mentioned amang the geniuses o' the immortal Slippers. O, Tammy, lad! the death o' the puir spinmaggie has been the life o' you! Now, says I to mysell, I'll try my han' too, and wha kens what michty things may happen to my ain handi

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warks? Sae ye see, sir, I set to wark, and I noo send
ye what I wrate-it is humble eneuch, nae doot, but ye
will be a better judge than mysell o' its demerits. But
ye maybe wad like to ken a' aboot me afore ye gie me
ony encouragement-at least, this is the way, I am tauld,
o' the Yeditor o' the " Weekly Visitor and Literary Mis-
cellany," published doon at Castle Douglas; for he'll
no prent ought, but what he kens comes frae lairds or
dominies, clerks or sticket ministers, or the like. This
paper, though, has lasted this six or seven years; but
there's naething worth a snuff in't noo, except Extracts
frae Chamers's Caledonia, relating to Gallowa’, and noo
and then something they ca' " Clishmaclaver"-dialogues,
as ye may opine, in distant imitation o' the Noctes (I
canna spell the ither word) o' Blackwood, between Cin-
cinnatus Caledonius, and some ither o' the beukmakers
and poets o' the Glenkens; and some o't is no that far
amiss. The Literary Journal, the Dumfries Courier, and
the said “ Visitor," are the only periodicals that fin' their
way till this out-o'-the-way quarter; and sometimes
when I gang doon to the toon, I get a glance o' Black-
wood-But this is no sticking to the last. Ye maun ken,
then, that I am not only "a surgeon of old shoes," but
I construct the understandings o' a' the honest villagers
o' Clauchanpluck—at least o' a' them that dinna rin bare-
fitted or wear clogs, excepting always the master, wha
gets his boots frae Hornell o' Kirkcubrie, as if the pro-
duce o' his ain clauchan werena guid eneuch for the
body. But then the Dominie's a wee conceited; and
verily he has some cause, for he's a man o' considerable
literary yeminence. Nae doubt ye'll ken that he's the
author o' that usefu' and intelligent work," The Infant,
price one penny," which begins with the A, B, C, and
ends with words o' less than twa syllables. Howsum-
ever, I'll be upsides wi' the Dominie, for I'm determined,
ance wee Johnny and Leezie hae twa years mair fushion
in their banes, to sen' them baith owre to Parton schuil,
though it's three miles aff, and through the water;-
that'll aye
be twa weel-payd half-croons oot o' his pooch
in the quarter; and, besides, I'll no buy "The Infant"
for wee Robbin, but I'll learn him the letters frae the
Carritches, and then pit him intill the sixpenny at ance.
-I am, dear sir, your humble servant to command,
ROBT. LEWERS,

Clauchanpluck, by (that is, six miles off)
Castle Douglas, 5th Sept. 1830.

SOMETHING ABOOT ANE AULD SHOE.
Addressed to the Reader.
Old coats, old hats, old breeches,
Have all been sung in verse,
But the merits of an old shoe

No bard did e'er rehearse.
Perhaps they thought it 'neath them,
The subject was so low;

But they have been mistaken,
And that I'll let them know.

'Tis very true, an old shoe

Is trampled under foot As long as it together sticks,

And then it is thrown out, And kick'd about and bandied

By urchins on the street; And often at a dog's tail

It yields a famous treat.

It can't, like worn-out breeches,
Be batter'd into paper;

This Auld Shoe was originally wrote in Scotch, but when doon at the toon, I got a gey clever callan to translate it into Eng hsh, whilk has deranged the versification a wee; but ye'll maybe tak: the trouble o' richtin' it. I gaed the callan' saxpence for his pains, which, with the ninepence ha'penny I maun pay o' postage, will make me one shilling and threepence-ha'penny out o' pouch, which I can ill encuch spare; but, if ye prent it, I'll be pleased eneuch.-R. L.

Nor, like old coat or castor,

On scarecrow cut a caper(For scarecrows, alias bogles,

Have always gone barefooted; And were they e'er to sport a shoe, They no doubt would be hooted.)

'Tis true, the noble breeches

The seat of honour covers;
But then a shoe contains two soles,
United like true lovers.

You know, besides, there's many hides
(But this we might let pass)
That erst did cover a calf's head,
Which now hold sole of ass.

But, last of all, and best of all,

Is what I'm going to sayWhat would you call an old shoe, If the heel were cut away? Now, you who understand me, Straightway apply the clippers, And don't despise old shoes at all,

When you can make them SLIPPERS!

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Female correspondents multiply upon us. Heaven knows that many of the dear creatures write the most ineffable nonsense that was ever penned. Yet have we a love for them all, and whenever we see a light flowing hand covering a sheet or two of gilt letter paper, we instantly shut our eyes, and as, like Coleridge, our eyes make pictures when they're shut," we see our gentle contributor seated at her desk, with a half-conscious blush upon her cheek, a deeper animation in her eye, a shower of dark ringlets upon her neck, and a little silver pen in her hand, which yields to the motion of the fairest fingers in the world. God help us! it may be all a delusion. That very contribution may come from some ancient dame, either married or single, with a nose like a pen-knife, and a wig like a wisp of straw. But we augur better things of the authoresses of the three poems we shall now give in succession, in all of which we discover marks of a graceful mind and true feminine feeling. There is something attractive in the very title of the first :

TO HIM I LOVE.

If ever the dewdrop was loved by the flower,
When panting it droop'd in its hot summer bower;
If e'er to the peasant soft evening was dear,
When his calm cottage home in the valley was near;
If ever the heather was sweet to the bee,
Beloved! thy affection is dearer to me!

If ever the eagle was proud of his might,

As his eye met the sun in his heavenward flight;

If ever old ocean was proud of his waves,

As foaming they roll'd over brave seamen's graves ;
If captive e'er triumph'd when ransom'd and free,
I am proud of thy truth-thy devotion to me !

If ever the exile on far foreign shore

Sigh'd for friendship's kind smile, he might never see

more;

If e'er the sweet nightingale wail'd in the grove,
When she miss'd the soft call of her answering love,
I pine for thy presence so blessed to me,
And waste my young spirit in weeping for thee !

But still in my sorrow one ray pours its light,
Like the moon when it bursts on the darkness of night;
If ever the bow spann'd in glory the heaven,
Tever the bark through the blue deep was driven,
If ever the summer brought calm to the sky,
Our souls are unchan ged in their faith till we die!

Not less poetical, and connected with the same subject— a subject of which woman never tires—is the following:

PARTING.

A lovely land is thine, beloved! across the distant sea, And they tell me thou must seek it now, and roam far, far from me ;

No marvel that my eye is dim, that sorrow sinks my heart,

Ah! what a strange wild dream is this to think that we must part!

A dream, indeed, is life itself a weary dream of pain, A dream to live-a dream to love-to part-to meet again!

All, all in this our mournful world, whate'er we hear or view,

Is faint as twilight's shadowy forms, as changing and untrue!

I had a hope to which my soul, oh! long and fondly clung,

That we should ne'er be tortured thus, by parting wildly

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Ah! could I sleep in peace for aye, or never part from thee! LUCY.,

We are not sure but we like the third of our poetesses best of all. Gertrude herself might have written

THE INDIAN GIRL'S SONG.
What is the day to me?

I languish for thy sight;
I live not when away from thee-
Oh! for the blessed night!

How sadden'd is my mind!

Like to the eastern flower,
That rests within its leaves enshrined
Until the evening hour.

Not the sun's brightest ray

Is like the eve's delight ;

-I think of thee throughout the day,
But gaze on thee at night!
When at my mournful song
Entranced each one appears,

I see but thee amid the throng,
And bless thee through my tears.

Feigning delight they gaze,

With many a flattering word

But, 'midst their loud, their heartless praise,
Thy sigh alone is heard!

My own loved Indian isle!

Would that I now were there!

Never has Spain's most glowing smile

To me seem'd half so fair.

Yet, when evening hour is nigh,

With dews and flow'rets' bloom, "He comes!" I in my spirit sigh, And chase away my gloom.

My gloom speeds fast away,

And my glad heart bounds free--Thou art the sun that lights my day; What were life without thee?

ZILLAH.

HELEN.

STANZAS ON EVENING.

By Thomas Campbell.

DEDICATED TO MISS CRUMPE.

The evening hastes to close the morning's portals,
And sweetly in the salt sea sups the sun;
Hark to the merry laugh of sleeping mortals

Playing at football with young Bacchus' tun.

The noiseless humming bee, with thundering wing,
Crawls swiftly through the impenetrable air;
The Graces, join'd with chimney-sweepers, sing
Of her who 's fairer than the fairest fair.

Oh! the uncertain certainty of fate,

The elephantine infancy of midges,-
The soft and silvery sounds of scolding Kate,-
The immobility of flying bridges.

For me my gay grey great-coat's greatly small;
The right boot, which is left, is now a bother;
It's rather old; 'twas made before the Fall

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rear.

It might have been dangerous to have introduced be--the unfortunate day in question-I found him on the fore these gentler compositions, any of the vigorous verses, banks of Loch Lubnaig-his creel half filled. The old of Thomas Campbell. It is with unfeigned pleasure fellow had on a green tartan coat-very respectably "A devilish that we find him contributing to the LITERARY JOURNAL; patched with a remnant of all the clans. "Excellent weather!" and our readers will, no doubt, agree with us in thinking fine day!" quoth the Doctor. Sol the stanzas which follow among the most successful pro- quoth I. (I never swear.) "Any thing taking ?". ductions of their gifted author: and so; but isn't it a dd fine day?"-" Capital," quoth I. "Devilish good," quoth he. "But yonder comes a black cloud," said I; "we shall have rain soon."-" Hem," says he, a fine day!" We fished on-our baskets were cramful, when, lo! down comes a thunder-plump-such shower! we might as well have been under water."You are out, doctor," quoth I. "No," says he; "it's d-d fine weather!"" Trouts don't take in thunder." "The devil they don't!" and back he walks with a couple of pounders at the end of his line. "Yo ho! obe infernally good weather!" But the doctor bad been in cautious in his retrograde motion; he had waded along a shelf of gravel without noticing a black deep pool in his Down he falls, head foremost—his rod snapping and the poor fellow himself between death and life, wak loping towards the edge. I luckily caught hold of him, and dragged him safe on shore" Dd fine day this were the first words he uttered. It will cost me four and sixpence for a new top-piece. Good gracious! my basket is empty! They are all out, every one of them! but it's a d-d fine day!" At this moment his soliloqry was interrupted by a peal of terrific thunder. "This hot work, boys! let us up to the mast-head, and spy the enemy;" and he took me by the shoulder, wishing drag me up to the top of Ben Ledi, frowning like a gia Amazon in her drapery above us. To dissuade hi from his purpose was impossible. I loved the old ma and accompanied him. After we had advanced a fe yards, "Now," says he, "let us sit down and enjoy th day." We did so, and pulling out our pocket-pistols, te each an inspiring draught. The doctor soon started up but a twig of heather caught his foot, and down again came full length, his nose striking against a stone "Claret," quoth he, as he wiped with his sleeve the bleeding prominence. He soon recovered his legs, an bursting into a fit of laughter, reiterated his unvarying text, "Now, isn't this a devilish fine day?" A mone after he was at full gallop down the hill; and being second time unable to control his career, found hims plunged in the loch. This was no joke; the doctor w drowning; molten lead could scarce have borne up hi weight of fat. I rushed forward, seized him by the head, (his hat had decamped half-way over the lock, and brought him again to shore. But the doctor neve moved-his eyes were shut. I suspected he was dead Calling to a shepherd in the distance, we got him cor veyed to the nearest hovel. Being put to bed, and th usual remedies applied, signs of returning animation gan to appear. Suddenly he opened his eyes, accomp nying the act with a deep groan. I expected the worst when all of a sudden, out came the astonishing anathen -"Blast this bloody infernal weather!"

Of Man-the shoemaker who has the other. According to our custom, we mingle prose with verse, for variety is the soul of enjoyment. The picturesque humour of the following sketch is increased by the fact of its being literally a narrative of facts:

THE DAFT DOCTOR.

A Sketch from Real Life.

The Daft Doctor was a native of C, a considerable village in the west of Perthshire. Originally a surgeon in the navy, he was long stationed on the American coast. While there, the news of some heavy domestic affliction brought on a brain fever-from the effects of which he never recovered. It left in his intellects a dismal and melancholy breach, and he returned home in a state of confirmed silliness.

Every one in C- knows the Daft Doctor. A jolly, good-humoured Christian he is-fat and innocent as a pet sheep. At first sight, and on a fine day, one could hardly believe that in a personage so portly, there existed the smallest trace of inherent malady. A short personal acquaintance proves the opposite. Yet his madness has taken a pleasant turn, and I cannot believe him unhappy. His complaint displays itself principally in the following piece of eccentricity. Let the weather be ever so rainy (and Heaven knows how much rain there is in that quarter!)—let it pour frogs and mice, or dogs and cats, if it will, still, if you meet the Doctor, you are greeted with the unchangeable salutation,-" A d-d fine day, sir, -a devilish good day this,-isn't it a divine day?" Turn your discourse into fifty other directions, every sentence uttered on either side is interpolated with" devilish good day." Throw a bucket of water in his face as has been wickedly done, by way of experiment—you only add to the vehemence of the affirmation,-" By Heaven! but this is an infernally fine day!"

Once, and only once, he gave up his creed for a moment. On that occasion, I had the good fortune to be present. It was a bitterly forced recantation, elicited by a rapid succession of calamities. The circumstances were these. The Doctor was a great fisher-a prodigious depopulator of the neighbouring streams;-he handled a rod to perfection, and could play a thirty-pound salmon down the pass of Leny, with as much ease as young Sandie Macgregor could whip a par out of the Keltie. One day

T. T. S

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Like some deep dream descending from on high,
That heaven into its bosom, and to lie

In a still smile! as fearful it may wake.
There is a living silence in the air;

There is a breathing quiet on the woods;
The rocks, the hills, the distant solitudes
Are wrapt in conscious stillness, as there were
A pause in Nature's course, while she survey'd,
With trembling rapture, all her God had made.

N. R. Much are we pleased with the naïveté of the following letter:

To the Editor of the Literary Journal.

Mr Editor,-What comes o' the bits o' sangs that you dinna like, an' daurna for the life o' ye prent? Do ye burn them? or do ye pit them, like your frien' the black chap, intill a box? Wae's me! wae's me! this ane, written by a frien' o' mine, now in the West Indies, I doubt will be added to the number; for he telt me afore he gaed awa',-quo' he, "Sandy, there's a sang that no a yeditor in a' Edinbro' wad tak' wi'." Quo' I," Peter, we'se see.' So the ship sailed awa', and I ne'er hae hard frae him, deed or leeving, sin' syne. Yours truly,.. SANDY SNODGRASS.

Fear not, honest Sandy; your friend's song shall have a place. Here it is, and when its author comes back, we shall be glad to see him:

SONG.

TUNE-" Tam Glen."

What means a' this scorning, my Jassie,
An' what mean thae looks o' disdain?
It wasna your wont to be saucy,

It isna your nature, I ken. ·
Langsyne, whan we met 'mang the breckan,
You laugh'd the young simmer day by;
But now, sin' this turn ye bae taken,
Ye've grown unco scornfu' and shy!

If love be the cause, though I doubt it,
Be frank, just at ance, now, an' tell;
I'll deave ye nae mair, lass, about it,

Gin I be the loved ane mysell;
But I'll steal to the fair again Monday,
An' buy you a braw prentit gown,
An' faith, ye'se appear the neist Sunday
The fairest young bride in the town.
Then cease wi' your scorning, dear lassie,
An' gie me a kind look the while;
Leave them to be frowning and saucy,
Whase faces were ne'er made to smile.

I'm but a puir hand at beseeching,

An' words hae na mony to spare,
Sae, I'll mak' a short end o' the preaching,
Gin ye will but listen the prayer!

Our readers shall have another song, full of the true Scotch spirit in more senses than one. A better national song has not been printed for many years:

SONG. THE BARLEY BREE.

(Humbly Inscribed to the Members of all Temperance Societies.)

TUNE-"Bide ye yet."

The barley bree! the barley bree!
Come fill up the bicker wi' barley bree;
Nae drinking o' vinegar- water for me,
Unless it be season'd wi' barley bree!*

Let heathen bards rave about Venus and Cupid,
An' a' their mythology, havers sae stupid,

The example of the Romans is much held up by the visionary worthies of temperance notoriety, who, absurdly enough, attribute the great personal strength of the "conquerors of the world," to their drinking vinegar and water.

Their high-boasted nectar was fussionless tea,
Compared wi' a cup o' gude barley bree.

The barley bree! the barley bree!
My benison on the barley bree!

What reddens the haffets, an' brightens the ee,
Like fu' brimming bickers o' barley bree?

Gin ye wad be strang, sirs, and scaithless frae sairs,
Gin ye wad live lang, sirs, untroubled wi' cares,
Then tak ye this wholesome bit counsel frae me-
Instead o' cauld water, drink barley bree.

The barley bree! the barley bree!
Come fill up the bicker wi' barley bree!
Nae swilling o' swipes or thin gruel for me,
Unless they're weel season'd wi' barley bree.

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TRANSPLANTED HEATHER.

I'm sad for thee, sweet mountain flower!
They've ta'en thee from the hill,

Where soft breeze falls and gladsome shower,
And wild bee sips his fill.

'They've put thee on a bank so gay,

And dug the earth around thee; But ne'er thou'lt bloom as in the day When on the hill they found thee.

Ah, no! thou'lt pine, and miss the showers, And lack the mountain air,

And be, amid the merry flowers,

The only thing of care.

And they will throw thee far from them,
As an unworthy thing,

For the bonny red bells on thy stem

Look wae and withering.

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