The mavis wild, wi' many a note, Now blooms the lily by the bank, I was the queen o' bonnie France, But as for thee, thou false woman,* Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword The weeping blood in woman's breast Was never known to thee; Nor the balm that drops on wounds of woe * Elizabeth, Queen of England, who unjustly detained her in prison. My son !* my son! may kinder stars Upon thy fortune shine; And may those pleasures gild thy reign God keep thee frae thy mother's foes, And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, O, soon, to me, may summer suns And the next flowers that deck the spring MONEY, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe, Surely thou didst so little contribute To this great kingdom which thou now hast got, * James the First, King of England. Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright; Have with our stamp and seal transferred our right, Thou art the man, and man but dross to thee. Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich, THE trumpet's voice hath roused the land; A hundred hills have seen the brand, A hundred banners to the breeze And hark! Iwas that the sound of seas? The chief is arming in his hall, The mourner hears the thrilling call, Looks with a boding eye, They come not back, though all be won, The bard hath ceased his song, and bound E'en for the marriage-altar crowned, The lover quits his bride. And all this haste, and change, and fear, How will it be when kingdoms hear FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.-Sir W. Scott. ENCHANTRESS, farewell! who so oft has decoyed me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell! and take with thee thy numbers wild speak ing, The language alternate of rapture and woe; O, none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know! Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary wan ing, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. 'T was thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing, To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain, And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild numbers, TRUE RICHES. Watts. I AM not concerned to know Heir to the best part of me. Glittering stones, and golden things, I could never call my own; I've a mighty part within, |