Farewell for aye : a salt tear dims
The eye that never wept before ;
Our mortal pilgrimage is o'er,
And now we part to meet no more!

Our lay of joy is past and gone, That once in vaulted halls we sung ; Alas ! our final peal hath rung Of mirth, high dames and lords among :

And now we gaze with sadness on The narrow home where song must end ; There no merry lays ascend Where my feeble footsteps wend.

Here on this oak that bourgeons fair, I'll hang thy wires of witching tone; The passing breeze will cause them moan, And swell my requiem when I'm gone.

The traveller faint will list’ning stare, And marvel whence thy sounds proceed, The fairy king in buxom weed, Will leave his dance to hear thy rede.

But chief of all, the love-lorn maid, When dusky twilight clouds the sky, Eluding watchful guardian's eye Towards this sacred spot will hie.

Beneath thy oaks' embow'ring shade She'll muse, and count each straggling ray The moon sheds on its lovely way, Along thy frame of silvery grey.

She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale,
Rise sweetly in thy midnight song,
Now, rapid roll, full ton'd, and strong,
Now, low and dying, weep along.

Oh ! she will hear thee oft bewail
The fate of lovers true, and tell,
How many an evil tide befell
Maids, who have lov'd but all too well.

The steel-clad knight as home he wends, From battle toils, and sieges dire, Will pause, and check his courser's fire, And under thy old oak retire :

For, lo ! thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze ; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities.

O Harp ! be still a little while,
Nor wake thy dirge of melting numbers,
Stay till thy master calmly slumbers,
Where no bale his bliss encumbers.

Now, take with thee his last faint smile,
And benison, in death's arms given,
Oh now begin thy mournful steven,
And waft my soul on it to heaven!

INDE X.

A coggie o' ale, and a pickle ait meal, . . .
Adown the green dell, near the Abbey's

remains, . . . . . . . nole
Again rejoicing nature sees, . . . . . .
Again the happy day returns, . . . note
Ah ! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell, . . . .
All in the merry Whitsuntide,
All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream, ..
Amid Loch-Catrine's scenery wild,
A moment pause, ye British fair,
And art thou gone, for ever gone, .
And can thy bosom bear the thought, .
And has she then fail'd in her truth, .

note
As I came in by our gate end,
At the close of the day in the sacred Ais
Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits,

. . note
Auld Rob, the laird o' muckle land, .
Away! let nought to love displeasing, . . note

note

Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,.

note Blow on, ye wild winds, o'er his hallowed

. . . . note Blythely I hae screwed my pipes, . . . . By the side of a mountain, o'ershadowed with trees, .

Can a crown give content, .

note
Claudine lived contented, and peace was her lot, . .
Columbia ! Columbia ! to glory arise, . . note
Come live with me, and be my love,
Come o'er the sea, . . .
Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar,

Paintly as tolls the evening chime, . . note
Fair dream of my slumber, sad thoughts of my waking,
Far lone amang the highland hills, . . . .
Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer, . . . . .
Farewell, oh sweet hope! I have wept thee in sadness,
For many a wistful hour to pity dear, . note
From his booth on the hill, the sad shepherd retires, .
From my slumber I woke at the dead hour of

night, . . . . . . note

22

Happy the world in that blest age, . . .

. . 356 Have you not seen the timid tear, . . . . Moore, . 333 Have you sailed on the breast of the deep.. . Blackwood's Mag., 392 Here, beneath this willow sleepeth, . . , Mrs Opie, . 134 Her hair was like the Cromla mist, . . . . R. Allan, . Her kiss was soft and sweet, . . . . . . James Yool, Here's to them that's awa,

Burns, . Here's to thy health, my bonny lass, . . . . Burns, . How ardently my bosom glows, .

James Yool, How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine, How green the fields, the flowers how fair, . note Patie Birnie, 289 How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom, J. D., .

note

2015

13

I come in the mor, I come in the hour, . note
I found the warrior on the plain, . . . . .
If that the world and love were young,

note
I have known what it was to be happy and gay, . .
In Buttermere's woods and wilds among . note
In summer when nature her mantle displays, . .
In summer when the hay was mawn, . . .

In vain thou call'st for a mirthful smile, . . . W. Reader, 327 Isabelle ! Isabelle ! hark to my soft lute, . . .

. 409 I saw from the beach when the morning was shining,

Moore, I saw thee weep-the big bright tear,

Byron, I saw thy form in youthful prime, . . . . Moore,

. 51 Is there a man whose breast ne'er glowd, . . .

171 Its filmy wing of azure hue, It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound

for Palestine, , . note Fanny de Beauharnois, 361 I've no sheep on the mountains, nor boat on the lake, Joanna Baillie, 69 I whispered her my last adieu, . . . note Camoens, . 371

Keen and cold is the blast loudly whistling around, ,
Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes of Gleniffer,
Kenmure's on an' awa, Willie, . . . note
Know'st thou the land where stately laurels bloom,,

Let every valiant son of Gaul, . . note Marquis de Paulmy, 248
Let high Benledi rear its tap, . . . . .
Let us go, lassie, go, . . . . . . . Tannahill,. 391
Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, 0, . . John Sim, . 144
Light springs the pang, light passes by, . . . Pulci,

245
Loud roar'd the tempest, the night was descending, .. J. B.,
Love under Friendship's vesture white, . . . Rogers, ,
Love will not bloom where envy breathes, . . . .

Maiden, wrap thy mantle round thee,
Maid of the cold suspicious heart,
Mark'd you her eye of heavenly blue, . . . .
Mary, why thus waste thy youth-time in sorrow, .
May heaven holpe the Mayde,
Merrily every bosom boundeth,

note
Mine be a cot beside the hill,
Money maks us bonny, .
My bonny black meer's dead, . . . . .
My cruel love to danger go,
My father and mother now lie with the dead, . ,
My friend is the man I would copy through life, .
My dying sire, in battle slain, . . . . .
My Harry was a gallant gay,

. note
My heart is sair, I darena tell, . . . note
My love can boast a sweeter flower, . . . .
My soul is dark-Oh! quickly string, . . ,