I've gi'en my heart to the lad I loe'd,
He was a gallant fellow.
Then twine it weel, my bonny dow,

And twine it well, the plaiden ;
The lassie lost her silken snood

In pu'ing of the bracken.

He prais'd my een sae bonny blue,

Sae lily white my skin, 0;
And syne he prie'd my bonny mou',
And sware it was nae sin, 0.

Then twine it weel, &c.

But he has left the lass he loo'd,

His ain true love forsaken,
Which gars me sair to greet the snood,
I lost amang the bracken.

Then twine it weel, &c.

VI.

SONG TO MARGARET,

In summer when nature her mantle displays,

Of the richest and loveliest hue, How pleasant, at evening, on Cartha's green banks,

To wander, dear Margaret, with you.

How sweet ’tis to look at the red blushing cloud,

And smile of the azure blue sky, But sweeter, far sweeter, the blush on thy cheek,

And sweeter the smile of thine eye.

And when in the bosom of ocean the sun

Has sunk for a time from the view, Still lovely the scene, when by moonlight beheld,

Of a soft and a silvery hue.

But what are the richest and loveliest scenes,

That nature or art can display,
If wanting my Margaret, nor art can excel,

Nor summer itself can look gay.

VII.

THE ORPHAN BOY.

Stay, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale !
Oh ! sure my looks must pity wake, -
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.
Yet I was once a mother's pride,
And my brave father's hope and joy ;
But in the Nile's proud fight he died,
And now I am an Orphan Boy.

L

Poor foo child ! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's vict'ry came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,
And see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought ;
She could not bear to see my joy ;
For with my father's life 'twas bought,
And made me a poor Orphan Boy.

The people’s shouts were long and loud ; My mother shuddering stopp'd her ears ; “Rejoice! Rejoice ! ” still cried the crowd, My mother answered with her tears. “Why are you crying thus,” said I, “While others laugh and shout with joy?” She kissed me—and, with such a sigh ! She called me her poor Orphan Boy.

" What is an orphan boy?” I cried,
As in her face I look'd and smil'd ;
My mother through her tears replied,
“You'll know too soon, ill-fated child !”
And now they've toll’d my mother's knell,
And I'm no more a parent's joy.
O Lady-I have learn’d too well
What 'tis to be an Orphan Boy.

Oh! were I by your bounty fed !
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide,-

Trust me, I wish to earn my bread ;
The sailor's orphan boy has pride.
Lady, you weep !-ha !—this to me ?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ?
Look down, dear parents ! look and see
Your happy, happy Orphan Boy.

VIII.

THE BATTLE OF BUSACO.*

AIR.-—" Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled."

Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
When far had rollid the sultry sun,
And night her pall of gloom had thrown,

O'er nature's still convexity ;
High on the heath our tents were spread,
The cold turf was our cheerless bed,
And o'er the hero's dew-chill'd head,

The banners flapp'd incessantly.

The loud war trumpet woke the morn,
The quivering drum, the pealing horn,
From rank to rank the cry is borne,

Arouse for death or victory;
The orb of day in crimson dye,
Began to mount the morning sky,
Then what a scene for warrior's eye,

Hung on the bold declivity.

The serried bay’nets glittering stood,
Like icicles on hills of blood,
An aerial stream, a silver wood,

Reeld in the flickering canopy.
Like waves of ocean rolling fast,
Or thunder cloud before the blast,
Massena's legions, stern and vast,
Rush'd to the dreadful revelry.

Whoever may have been the author, The Battle of Busaco is a song of considerable merit, and undoubtedly the production of a master in poetry. It is evidently done in the style of Mr. Campbell's Hohenlinden, and though the imitation must be acknowledged to be in some respects inferior to the model, yet still it possesses particular, nay even distinguished excellence in its kind. By a variety of old picturesque allusions, expressed by terms most appropriate and impressive, the poet introduces, describes, and concludes the interesting scenes of action, of contest, and of death. With a concern which it is utterly impossible to suppress, we hear the awfully comprehensive signal to engage, “ Arouse for death or victory." In harsh grating sounds, which enter the very soul, we are informed of legions “Rushing to the dreadful revelry," while the poet in a manner highly significant, personifies “Red Ruin riding triumphantly.” The whole, in fact, is a highly finished effusion, eminently calculated to commemorate the affair to which it refers, and by its impulse to rouse the undaunted and heroic to the boldest “ Feats of chivalry."