A

AILSA CRAG.

SEA-GIRT precipice, in lonely rest,

Upstarting sheer from out the dark green deep; I watch thee steadfast with thy columned crest. Whether the stars their silent vigils keep, Or the bright lances of the morning sweep Athwart the mountains, thou hast firmly stood By night and day, with all undaunted steep; Ages have rolled, and thou art unsubdued, A landmark calm and still, amid the weltering flood.

Bathed in the sombre light of eventide,

The great sun slowly draws his shafts around,
While gently heaves the breast of ocean wide;
The wavelets, murmuring with a mellow sound,
From thy gray base in playful mood rebound;
The sea beneath thee gleams with golden light;
In joyous quiet smiles the plain profound;
Set in the main o'er all the verge of sight,
Lit by the rays like gems, the islands glitter bright.

Fair in the distance mark the sunlit land,
Long Carrick's coast, the line of gay Cantire;
Far westward shines the dim-traced emerald strand;
High the surrounding battlements aspire,

And throw vast shadows in the fading fire.
See the majestic hills of Arran rise,

Wind-wrestling Goatfell and his rugged choir;
Argyll's tall ridges cleave the soaring skies;
Beyond the misty north the mighty Lomond lies.

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John Nichol.

Airly.

AIRLY BEACON.

IRLY BEACON, Airly Beacon;
O the pleasant sight to see
Shires and towns from Airly Beacon,
While my love climbed up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
O the happy hours we lay
Deep in fern on Airly Beacon,
Courting through the summer day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon;
O the weary haunt for me,

All alone on Airly Beacon,
With his baby on my knee!

Charles Kingsley.

Allan Water.

BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANCED TO ROVE.

Y Allan stream I chanced to rove,

BY

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;

The winds were whispering through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready.

I listened to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures monie;

And aye the wild-wood echoes rang,

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!

O, happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine forever!" While monie a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae;
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery through her shortening day
Is Autumn in her weeds o' yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure?
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

Robert Burns.

A

No home of pride, of pomp, and sin,

So freely let us lift the latch,

The willing latch that says, Come in."

Plain dwelling this! a narrow door,

No carpet by soft sandals trod,

But just for peasant's feet a floor,
Small kingdom for a child of God!

Yet here was Scotland's noblest born,
And here Apollo chose to light;
And here those large eyes hailed the morn
That had for beauty such a sight!

There, as the glorious infant lay,

Some angel fanned him with his wing, And whispered, "Dawn upon the day Like a new sun! go forth and sing!"

He rose and sang, and Scotland heard,
The round world echoed with his song,
And hearts in every land were stirred

With love, and joy, and scorn of wrong.

Some their cold lips disdainful curled;
Yet the sweet lays would many learn;
But he went singing through the world,
In most melodious unconcern.

For flowers will grow, and showers will fall,
And clouds will travel o'er the sky;
And the great God, who cares for all,
He will not let his darlings die.

But they shall sing in spite of men,
In spite of poverty and shame,
And show the world the poet's pen

May match the sword in winning fame.
Thomas William Parsons.

BURNS.

TO A ROSE BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822.

WILD rose of Alloway! my thanks;

WILD

Thou mindst me of that autumn noon

When first we met upon "the banks
And braes o' bonny Doon."

Like thine, beneath the thorn-tree's bough,
My sunny hour was glad and brief;
We've crossed the winter sea, and thou
Art withered-flower and leaf.

I've stood beside the cottage-bed

Where the bard-peasant first drew breath;
A straw-thatched roof above his head,
A straw-wrought couch beneath.

And I have stood beside the pile,

His monument, that tells to heaven
The homage of earth's proudest isle,
To that bard-peasant given.

The last, the hallowed home of one

Who lives upon all memories,

Though with the buried gone.