Thy eggs are cauld, and wat, and dead,
And by them lies thy peaceful head,

In death's last sleep.

I saw thee limping to thy bed,

To mourn and weep.

Thou kept them frae the wind and rain,
But a' thy cares and hopes were vain,

Which thou possest ;

Baith bird and eggs are dead and gane,

To endless rest.

When thou did'st live, puir murder'd thing,

Ilk dewy morn on whirring wing,

Exulting sprang;

Then gae'd the moors and mosses ring

Wi' thy glad sang.

Thy mate sits by thee, yet alane,
He little thinks that thou art gane

To life's last goal;

For still he makes his woeful mane,

To cheer thy soul.

The muirland herd was oft thy fear,
As he thy haunts did wander near,
At even dark;

Nae mair the foxes' yelp thou'lt hear,

Or colly bark.

The little humble daisy smiled,

Wi' cheerfu' face, sae meek and mild,

Now drops a tear ;

The heather bush waves wae and wild,

Forlorn and drear.

Ah, me! mayhap, in yonder vale,
Some orphan lives to weep and wail,

From hope outcast;

And, shiv'ring, tells his woeful tale

Unto the blast.

E'en like to thine the orphan's lot,
His name and place shall be forgot,

In silent gloom;

The dreary winds shall hold their route

Out o'er his tomb.

Here, rest in peace, receive a tear,

The mighty heron's cry I hear,

The dark comes fast;

The spark in yonder cot looks drear,

Adieu! and rest.

THE GOLDFINCH.

Bietmar.

THERE sat upon the linden-tree
A bird, and sang its strain;
So sweet it sang, that, as I heard,
My heart went back again.
It went to one remember'd spot,

It saw the rose-trees grow,

And thought again the thoughts of love There cherish'd long ago.

A thousand years to me it seems

Since by thy face I sate,

Yet thus t' have been a stranger long

Was not my choice, but fate:

Since then I have not seen the flowers,

Nor heard the bird's sweet song;

My joys have all too briefly past,

My griefs been all too long.

THE LINNET'S NEST.

Barwin.

THE busy birds with nice selection cull
Soft thistle-down, grey moss, and scatter'd wool;
Far from each prying eye the nest prepare,·
Form'd of warm moss, and lined with softest hair.
Week after week, regardless of her food,
The incumbent Linnet warms her future brood;
Each spotted egg with ivory bill she turns,
Day after day with fond impatience burns;
Hears the young prisoner chirping in his cell,
And breaks in hemispheres the fragile shell:

THE BLUE BIRD.

Alex. Wilson. `

WHEN Winter's cold tempests and snows are no

more,

Green meadows and brown-furrow'd fields

re-appearing,

The fishermen hauling their shad to the shore,

And cloud-cleaving geese to the lakes are

When first the lone butterfly flits on the wing, When red glow the maples, so fresh and so

pleasing,

O then comes the Blue Bird, the herald of Spring!

And hails with his warblings the charms of the

season.