THE FALCON.

Bietmar.

By the heath stood a Lady,
All lonely and fair;

As she watch'd for her lover
A Falcon flew near.

"Happy Falcon!" she cried,

Who can fly where he list; And can choose in the forest

The tree he loves best!

Thus, too, had I chosen One knight for mine own, Him my eye had selected, Him prized I alone.

But other fair ladies

Have envied my joy:

And why? for I sought not

Their bliss to destroy.

"As to thee, lovely Summer!

Returns the bird's strain; As on yonder green linden The leaves spring again; So constant doth grief

At my eyes overflow,

And wilt not thou, dearest,

Return to me now?

'Yes, come, my own hero,
All others desert!

When first my eye saw thee,
How graceful thou wert!
How fair was thy presence,
How graceful, how bright!
Then think of me only,
My own chosen knight!"

K

THE LARK.

THE livelong night, as was my wonted lot,
In tears had pass'd, nor yet day's orb was hot,
When forth I walk'd, my sorrows to beguile,
Where freshly smelling fields with dewdrops smile.

Already with his shrilling carol gay

The vaulting Skylark hail'd the sun from far;
And with so sweet a music seem'd to play
My heart-strings round, as some propitious star
Had chased whate'er might fullest joyaunce mar:
Bathed in delicious dews that morning bright,
Thus strove my voice to speak my soul's delight.-

Hark! Hark!

Thou merry Lark!
Reckless thou how I may pine;
Would but Love my vows befriend,
To my warm embraces send

That sweet fair one,

Brightest, dear one,

Then my joy might equal thine.

Hark! Hark!

Thou merry Lark!

Reckless thou how I may pine;
Let Love, tyrant, work his will,
Plunging me in anguish still:
Whatsoe❜er

May be my care,

True shall bide this heart of mine.

Hark! Hark!

Thou merry Lark!

Reckless thou what griefs are mine; Come, relieve my heart's distress, Though in truth the pain is less,

That she frown,

Than if unknown

She for whom I ceaseless pine.

Hark! Hark!

Thou merry Lark!

Reckless thou how I may pine.

ON SHOOTING A MOOR-HEN OFF HER NEST BY MISTAKE.

THY droopit wing anes cheerful flew,
Naw cauld and wat wi' nightly dew,

Poor murder'd thing;

As fate drew near, the wind did sigh,

And dreary sing.

Then thought some lavrock cam to rest,
That might aside thy peaceful nest,

In safety sweet;

Or, that it was the wind that pass'd,

On sightless feet.

But, oh! it was nae lavrock sweet

That nod by thee wi' tender feet

The dewy grun';

But, oh! it was relentless fate,

The mortal gun.