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Hast thou felt thy bosom bound

warks ? Sae ye see, sir, I set to wark, and I noo send With sacred rapture at the sound

ye what I wrate-it is humble eneuch, nae doot, but ye Of waters, winding clear among

will be a better judge than mysell o' its demerits. But The wildwood, sending forth a song

ye maybe wad like to ken a' aboot me afore ye gie me Mournfully, and soft, and deep,

ony encouragement—at least, this is the way, I am tauld, Like maiden sighing through her sleep,

o'the Yeditor o'the “ Weekly Visitor and Literary Mis. Murmuring till the flow'ret slept,

cellany,” published doon at Castle Douglas; for he'll While ever and anon it dipt

no prent ought, but what he kens comes frae lairds or Its fair head on the streamlet's breast,

dominies, clerks or sticket ministers, or the like. This Which heaved, and would not let it rest?

paper, though, has lasted this six or seven years; but Has the hour of deep midnight

there's naething worth a snuff in't noo, except Extracts Full of love and feeling found thee,

frae Chamers's Caledonia, relating to Gallowa', and noo Alone upon the mountain's height,

and then something they ca' “ Clishmaclaver"-dialogues, Where nought but stars were burning round thee, as ye may opine, in distant imitation o' the Noctes (I Beautiful as angels' eyes,

canna spell the ither word) o' Blackwood, between CinBeaming through the deep blue skies?

cinnatus Caledonius, and some ither o' the beukmakers And where the brightest beam'd and blazed, and poets o' the Glenkens; and some o't is no that far Hast thou turn'd thee round, and gazed

amiss. The Literary Journal, the Dumfries Couri'r, and Long and lingering, till you felt

the said “ Visitor," are the only periodicals that fin' their Thy heart into their glory melt ?

way till this out-o'-the-way quarter; and sometimes

when I gang doon to the toon, I get a glance o' BlackIf through thy bosom there hath rush'd

wood But this is no sticking to the last. Ye maun ken, Such a tide of feelings strong,

then, that I am not only “ a surgeon of old shoes," but Rejoice! for then thy soul hath known

I construct the understandings o' a' the honest villagers The sweetest hour of love and song !

o Clauchanpluck-at least o'a'them that dinna rin bareA natural is at all times superior to an artificial man,

fitted or wear clogs, excepting always the master, wha and aristocratical as our notions may be in some things gets his boots frae Hornell o' Kirkcubrie, as if the pronothing delights us more than an effusion which evidently duce o' his ain clauchan werena guid eneuch for the seems to come from the heart, and is full of the real body. But then the Dominie's a wee conceited; and character of him who pens it. Hence we introduce verily he has some cause, for he's a man o' considerable with confidence the following letter and poem to our

literary yeminence. Nae doubt ye'll ken that he's the readers, which we are sure they cannot peruse without author o' that usefu' and intelligent work,“ The Infant, much amusement :

price one penny,” which begins with the A, B, C, and

ends with words o' less than twa syllables. HowsumTo the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. ever, I'll be upsides wi' the Dominie, for I'm determined, Dear Sir, I am no much accustomed to write to folk ance wee Johnny and Leezie hae twa years mair fushion I never saw, and, therefore, I may be guilty o'an im- in their banes, to sen' them baith owre to Parton schuil, propriety in addressing you in this way; but as I am though it's three miles aff, and through the water ;ane o' yer readers, and hae been in gey familiar terms that'll


be twa weel-payd half-croons oot o' his pooch wi' ye, even in your ain immortal Slippers, and mair in the quarter; and, besides, I'll no buy “ The Infant" especially as ye hae been aften, and in divers ways, a solace for wee Robbin, but I'll learn him the letters frae the and a source o' muckle enjoyment to me when I would Carritches, and then pit him intill the sixpenny at ance. otherwise hae been dull eneuch, I consider ye in the light -I am, dear sir, your humble servant to command, o'an especial frien’ and weelwisher to me, as weel as to

ROBT. LEWERS. the lave o' your readers; and ye maun therefore just ex Clauchanpluck, by (that is, si.x miles off) cuse me for ca'ing ye dear sir, though peradventure I Castle Douglas, 5th Sept. 1830. may thereby outrage the rules o' gentility, with whilk, I maun confess, I had never ony opportunity o' becoming acquaint; and ye maunda construe my familiarity into

Addressed to the Reader. ony lack o' that respect due to ane o' your transcendent

Old coats, old hats, old breeches, abeelities. Ye maun ken, then, as I said afore, that I

Have all been sung in verse, read the Leelerary Journal ; but before it comes my length, But the merits of an old shoe it has gaen through at least a dizzen ban's, and by that

No bard did e'er rehearse. time it bear's undeniable marks o' having been weel

Perhaps they thought it 'neath them, thumm'd and profoondly studied. It is at least a month

The subject was so low ; auld when I get it, and, after perusing it carefully twice

But they have been mistaken, ower, I lay it by-black and creeshy although it be-in

And that I'll let them know. tending, if I can spare as muckle o' the needfu', to hae it yelegantly bun', an' to lay it up on the shelf aside the

'Tis very true, an old shoe Bible and Burns's Poems. I hae aye wished, sin' ever I

Is trampled under foot ken'd a prented beuk frae a copy o' ells or cloopies, to see

As long as it together sticks, something o' my ain composing in prent: but how could

And then it is thrown out, I ever expeck that ony prenter, or yeditor, or the like,

And kick'd about and bandied wad tak ony notice o' what might emanate frae the brain

By urchins on the street ; or the pen o' a hurkling mechanic like mysell, until yer And often at a dog's tail Number o' the 3d o' July cam into my han', whar I saw

It yields a famous treat. a letter frae the Cowgate o' Edinbro, wi' a poem about a Spin Maggie. Thinks I to mysell, Thomas Brownlee,

It can't, like worn-out breeches, what a lucky chiel ye are, to see no only yer letter and

Be batter'd into paper ; yer poem in sic a glorious periodical as the Leeterary Journal, but to be honourably mentioned amang the • This Auld Shoe was originally wrote in Scotch, but when dooa geniuses o' the immortal Slippers. 0, Tammy, lad! the

at the toon, I got a gey clever callan to translate it into En lsh

whilk has deranged the versification a wee; but ye'll may be tak: the death o' the puir spinmaggie has been the life o' you ! trouble o' richtin' it. I gaed the callan' saxpence for his pains, Now, says I to mysell, I'll try my han' too, and wha

which, with the ninepence ha'penny I maun pay o' postage, will make kens what michty things may happen to my ain handi

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,

Not less poetical, and connected with the same subjectOn scarecrow cut a caper

a subject of wbich woman never tires-is the following: (For scarecrows, alias bogles,

Have always gone barefooted ;

A lovely land is thine, beloved ! across the distant sea,
And were they e'er to sport a shoe,

And they tell me thou must seek it now, and roam far, They no doubt would be hooted.)

far from me ;

No marvel that my eye is dim, that sorrow sinks my 'Tis true, the noble breeches

beart, The seat of honour covers;

Ah! what a strange wild dream is this to think that we
But then a shoe contains two soles,

must part !
United like true lovers.
You know, besides, there's many hides

A dream, indeed, is life itself

- weary dream of pain, (But this we might let pass)

A dream to live

a dream to love to part-to meet That erst did cover a calf's head,

again! Which now hold sole of ass.

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

view, Bat, last of all, and best of all,

Is faint as twilight's shadowy forms, as changing and
Is what I'm going to say-

What would you call an old shoe,
If the heel were cut away?

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

clung, Now, you who understand me,

That we should ne'er be tortured thus, by parting wildly Straightway apply the clippers,

wrung ;-And don't despise old shoes at all,

But hopes are like the blossoms light the wind shakes When you can make them SLIPPERS !

from the tree, Female correspondents multiply upon us. Heaven And they tell me thou must leave me now, and cross knows that many of the dear creatures write the most

the distant sea! ineffable ponseose that was ever penned. Yet have we a love for them all, and whenever we see a light flowing Beloved ! no blessed tear-drop starts to dew my sleepless

eyes, hand covering a sheet or two of gilt letter paper, we in

But dark the future's dreamy waste before my spirit lies; stantly shut our eyes, and as, like Coleridge,

our eyes make pictures when tbey're shut,” we see our gentle

The past, with all its beauty, comes in freshness back

to me-contributor seated at her desk, with a half-conscious

Ah! could I sleep in peace for aye, or never part from blush upon her cheek, a deeper animation in her eye, a


Lucy. shower of dark ringlets upon her neck, and a little silver pen in her hand, wbich yields to the motion of the fairest We are not sure but we like the third of our poetessés fingers in the world. God help us ! it may be all a delu- best of all. Gertrude herself might have written sion. That very contribution may come from some an

THE INDIAN GIRL's song, cient dame, either married or single, with a nose like a

What is the day to me? pen-knife, and a wig like a wisp of straw. But we au

I languish for thy sight; gar better things of the authoresses of the three poems we

I live not when away from theeshall now give in succession, in all of which we discover

Oh! for the blessed night! marks of a graceful mind and true feminine feeling. There is something attractive in the very title of the

How sadden'd is my mind! first :

Like to the eastern flower,
That rests within its leaves enshrined

Until the evening hour.
If ever the dewdrop was loved by the flower,
When panting it droop'd in its hot summer bower ;

Not the sun's brightest ray
If e'er to the peasant soft evening was dear,

Is like the eve's delight ;When his calm cottage home in the valley was near;

I think of thee throughout the day, If ever the heather was sweet to the bee,


gaze on thee at night! Beloved! thy affection is dearer to me!

When at my mournful song If ever the eagle was proud of his might,

Entranced each one appears, As his eye met the sun in his heavenward flight;

I see but thee amid the throng, If ever old ocean was proud of his waves,

Apd bless thee tbrough my tears. As foaming they rolld over brave seamen's graves ;

Feigning delight they gaze, If captive e'er triumph'd when ransom'd and free,

With many a flattering wordI am proud of thy truth—thy devotion to me!

But, 'midst their loui, their heartless praise, If ever the exile on far foreign shore

Thy sigh alone is heard ! Sigbd for friendship's kind smile, he might never see My own loved Indian isle ! more ;

Would that I now were there! If e'er the sweet nightingale wail'd in the grove,

Never has Spain's most glowing smile When she miss'd the soft call of her answering love,

To me seem'd half so fair. I pine for thy presence so blessed to me,

Yet, when evening hour is nigh, And waste my young spirit in weeping for thee !

With dews and Aow'rets' bloom,

He comes !” I in my spirit sigh, But still in my sorrow one ray pours its light,

And chase away my gloom.
Like the moon when it bursts on the darkness of night;
If ever the bow spann'd in glory the heave

My gloom speeds fast away, 1. ever the bark through the blue deep was driven,

And my glad heart bounds free If ever the summer brought calm to the sky,

Thou art the sun that lights my day;
Our souls are unchan ged in their faith till we die !

What were life without thee ?







It might have been dangerous to have introduced be --the unfortunate day in question-I found him on the

Tbe old fore these gentler compositions, any of the vigorous verses banks of Loch Lubpaig-bis creel half filled. 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. the stanzas which follow among the most successful pro- quoth I. (I never swear.) “ Any thing taking ?"_“ So ductions of their gifted author :

and so ; but isn't it a dd fine day?"__" Capital," quoch I. “ Devilish good," quoth he." But yonder comes a black

cloud,” said I ; "we shall have rain soon."-" Hem," ars By Thomas Campbell.

he, “a fine day!” We fished on our baskets were cran

ful, when, lo! down comes a thunder-plamp such a The evening hastes to close the morning's portals,

shower! we might as well have been under water.

“ You are out, doctor,” quoth I. “ No," says be ; " it's And sweetly in the salt sea sups the sun;

d-d fine weather !"..." Trouts don't take in thunder." HIark to the merry laugh of sleeping mortals

_" The devil they don't !” and back he walks with a Playing at football with young Bacchus' tun.

couple of pounders at the end of his line. “ Yo bo! obs! The noiseless humming bee, with thundering wing,

infernally good weather !" But the doctor bad been inCrawls swiftly through the impenetrable air;

cautious in his retrograde motion ; be had waded along : The Graces, join'd with chimney-sweepers, sing

shelf of gravel without noticing a black deep pool in bo

Down he falls, head foremost-his rod snapping Of her who 's fairer than the fairest fair.

and the poor fellow himself between death and life, wat Oh! the uncertain certainty of fate,

loping towards the edge.. I luckily caught hold of hic, The elephantine infancy of midges,

and dragged him safe on shore. *D_ fine day this The soft and silvery sounds of scolding Kate,

were the first words he uttered." I" It will cost me four The immobility of flying bridges.

and sixpence for a new top-piece. Good gracious ! try

basket is empty! They are all out, every one of them For me my gay grey great-coat's greatly small ;

but it's a d-d fine day!" At this moment his soliloqr The right boot, which is left, is now a bother;

was interrupted by a peal of terrific thunder. “ This It's rather old ; 'twas made before the Fall

hot work, boys ! let us up to the mast-head, and spy to Of Man-the shoemaker who has the other.

enemy;" and he took me by the shoulder, wishing a

drag me up to the top of Ben Ledi, frowning like a gia According to our custom, we mingle prose with verse, Amazon in her drapery above us. To dissuade him for variety is the soul of enjoyment. The picturesque from his purpose was impossible! I loved the old ma humour of the following sketch is increased by the fact and accompanied him. After we had advanced a fel of its being literally a narrative of facts :

yards, “ Now,” says he, “ let us sit down and enjoy the day.” We did so, and pulling out our pocket-pistols, too

each an inspiring draught. The doctor soon started as A Sketch from Real Life.

but a twig of heather caught his foot, and down again The Daft Doctor was a native of C a considera- came full length, his nose striking against a stope ble village in the west of Perthshire. Originally a sur-“ Claret,” quoth he, as he wiped with his sleeve th geon in the navy, he was long stationed on the American bleeding prominence. He soon recovered his legs, as

While there, the news of some heavy domestic bursting into a fit of laughter, reiterated his unvaryis affliction brought on a brain fever—from the effects of text, Now, isn't this a devilish fine day?" A moma which he never recovered. It left in his intellects a dis- after he was at full gallop down the hill; and being mal and melancholy breach, and he returned home in a second time unable to control his career, found himsel state of confirmed silliness.

plunged in the loch. This was no joke; the doctor wat Every one in C— knows the Daft Doctor. A jolly, drowning ; molten lead could scarce havé borure up bi good-humoured Christian he is fat and innocent as a pet weight of fat. I rashed forward, seized him by ab sheep. At first sight, and on a fine day, one could hardly head, (his hat had decamped half-way over the loca. believe that in a personage so portly, there existed the and brought him again to shore. But the doctor neve smallest trace of inherent malady. A short personal moved-his eyes were shut. I suspected he was dead acquaintance proves the opposite. Yet his madness has Calling to a shepherd in the distance, we got him oos taken a pleasant turn, and I cannot believe him unhappy. veyed to the nearest hovel. Being put to bed, and it His complaint displays itself principally in the following usual remedies applied, siyos of returning animation L piece of eccentricity. Let the weather be ever 80 rainy gan to appear. Suddenly he opened his eyes, accomp -(and Heaven knows how much rain there is in that nying the act with a deep groan. I expected the worst quarter !)—let it pour frogs and mice, or dogs and cats, if when all of a sudden, out came the astonishing anather it will, still, if you meet the Doctor, you are greeted with _" Blast this bloody infernal weather !" the unchangeable salutation," A d—d fine day, sir,

T. T. S -a devilish good day this,-isn't it a divine day?” Turn your discourse into fifty other directions, every sentence

A poet, who liveth not far from the border, hatha tram uttered on either side is interpolated with—“ devilish mitted to us the following lively lucubration : 1 good day.” Throw a bucket of water in his face-as has


SONG, been wickedly done, by way of experiment-you only add to the vehemence of the affirmation,-“ By Heaven! but

Written on the occasion of Sir Walter Scott's visit to this is an infernally fine day !"


I love i Once, and only once, he gave up his creed for a mo We've had by far the brightest star de mida mu

On that occasion, I had the good fortune to be That Britain has to brag, man į te jedan present. It was a bitterly forced recantation, elicited by

The greatest man in any lan' a rapid succession of calamities. The circumstances were Has dined upon our crag, man. these. The Doctor was a great fisher-a prodigious depopulator of the neighbouring streains ;-he handled a We've had the pride o' Europe wide, rod to perfection, and could play a thirty-pound salmon The glory o' the age, man, down the pass of Leny, with as much ease as young Sandie Whase name has gone through every zone, Macgregor could whip a par out of the Keltie. One day And gilds the brightest page, man.



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Had we but kent that he was bent

To visit us sae soon, man, We wad hae rear'd our Aag, and cheer'd

Him passing through our toon, man.

Auld Sandyknow wad kaim'd her pow,

And busk'd her in her best, man ; But yet for a', she look'd fu' braw,

Alchough she wasna dress’d, man.

He cam' to see her Tower sae hie,

Her sweet enchanting clime, man, Her rude rocks wild, fantastic piled,

And banks and braes sublime, man.

There nature caught, and first himn taught

Parnassus how to speel, man ; At her desire he tuned bis lyre,

And play'd, and pleased her weel, man. His mighty mind, before confined,

Got room there to expand, man; He lookd around, and there he found

Materials a' at hand, man.

Nae man has wrote so much as Scott,

Nane ought that's half sae grand, man : Britannia's shore was dark before

He lighted up her land, man. He's weel aware he's written mair

Thaa a' the kingdoms three, man; While burns sublime tbe torch of tiine,

His page will bear the gree, man. And nane need try wi' him to vie,

For he has quite the heels, man; Though critics puff, and gie'm a buff,

And think they're clever chiels, man ;As some vast rock endures the shock

Of ocean's wildest wave, man,
Wi' dauntless form he meets the storm,

And smiles to hear it rave, inan.

Like some deep dream descending from on high,

That heaven into its bosom, and to lie In a still sinile ! 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 sbip 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 :


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.
Lanysyne, 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


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 Capid,
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.

The sportive lambs around their dams,

Upon the cragsy brow, man, A frisk'd and danced, and countenanced

Him while at Sandy know, man.

The birdies sang baith loud and lang,

Frae ilka bank and bower, man ; The plovers flew, and skirl'd too,

And craws croak'd on the Tower, man. Our Sandyknow, I rather tros,

And I could tak a bet, man, Engaged wi' lords, or navy boards,

He winna soon forget, man.

While sun, and moon, and stars, look doon

Upon the mighty mob, man,
His page sae fine, will peerless shine

The wonder o' the globe, man.

J. M. Some people bate sonnets ; we like them. At all events, they have one great merit,—they can never be tedious. We subjoin one worth reading :


Here let us sit! What lovely openings break

To beauteous prospects round us! What a sky

Sprends its blue arch, in glorious majesty, Above our heads! And see-yon moveless lake (Scarce murin'ring through its slumber) seems to take,

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When autumn's leaves are sere and brows,

And, rustling, fall to earth,
Again thou seek'st the peopled town,

To share our winter mirth.

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It cheers the faint-hearted, it warms the cauld,
Maks wise men o' haverals, and young men o' auld,
Gars douf dowie bosoms loup lightly in glee-
Hurrah for auld Scotia's barley bree!

The barley bree! the barley bree!
Hurrah for the land o' the barley bree!
My ain honest kintra, oh, blessings on thee!
Thou land o'gude fellows an' barley bree!

W. W. Our western poet, Thomas Brydson, holds, in general, a worthy place in our Slippers. His offering on the present occasion is the following: TO THE CAGED EAGLE, AMONG THE RUINS OF DUNOLLY


By Thomas Brydson.
Bird of the sun! how closely pent

Art thou, who would'st be wildly free
Caseering on thy mighty wings

From sea to sea !

Welcome-most welcome, cheerful bird,

To the old apple-tree;
No cat of mine, believe my word,

Shall e'er lay paw on thee. ,
There frolic thou, and merry thruin

Thy pleasing allegro;
And I will fling thee many a crumb

Above the drifted snow.

Again will come the genial morn,

With green buds on the tree, And spring on golden sunbeains borne

To nature and to thee.

The vast and lone of nature's scenes,

Where earth lies nearest unto heaven, And bears no print of mortal tread,

To thee were given.

Then I will take my angling rod,

And to the mountain stream, And sing with thee in thy abode,

And love shall be the theine.

Still in that lofty-glancing eye,

The spirit of the desert glows, And round thee in thy prison dim

A glory throws.

Though sad it is to see thee thus,

Not all unmeet for such a guest Is this grey pile, beneath whose floor

Dead warriors rest.

Thou'lt'tell thy love unto thy mate,

And I unto my Jean ;
And we'll not fear the frown of fate

Among the brackens green.

Three short pieces, by different authors, but all pleasing, simple, and natural, fill up our list for the present :

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.

A wand'rer from the world away,

Finds theme of silent musing here, And loves these time-worn walls the more

That thou art near.

Hail to thee-whose bright presence brings

Across my soul a thousand dreams Of cloud-plumed mountains, with their woods

And sounding streams !

Hail to thee, regal bird ! all hail !

Could I thy prison door unbind, Thy free-born form would, soaring, cleave

The viewless wind !

Thy home of youth would rise again,

In grandeur on thy raptured gaze,
And the blue vault of space be thine

Through future days

Our northern poet, John Nevay, also presents himself, a pretty constant guest at the feast of SLIPPERS :

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.
I'm sad for thee, sweet mountain flower !

That e'er thou left the hill,
Where soft breeze falls and gladsome shower,

And wild bee sips his fill.
St Ninians, October 4, 1830.


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