Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,
Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree:
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white,
Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?"

"I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;

But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree :
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me."

"It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature,
She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee."
"It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Carv,
It was then your true love I met by the tree :
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me."
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,
Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:
"Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning;
Defend ye, fause traitor; fu' loudly ye lie."

“ Away wi’ beguiling," cried the youth smiling—
Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
"Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?"

"O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee."

Miss Susan Blamire.

JBorn 1747.
Died 1794.

A CUMBERLAND lady, who during a short residence in Scotland acquired a thoroughly idiomatic acquaintance with the Scottish language, and wrote some exquisite songs. She also wrote a poem in the Cumbrian dialect.

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

WHAT ails this heart o' mine?

What ails this watery e'e?

What gars me a' turn pale as death

When I take leave o' thee?

When thou art far awa',

Thou'lt dearer grow to me;

But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,
Ilk rustling bush will seem to say
I used to meet thee there.

Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,

I'll ca't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower,

That thou wi' roses tied,

And where wi' mony a blushing bud
I strove myself to hide ;

I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I hae been wi' thee,

And ca' to mind some kindly word

By ilka burn and tree.

FROM "THE NABOB."

WHEN silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trod on thirty years,

I sought again my native land
Wi' mony hopes and fears.
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left
May still continue mine?

Or gin I e'er again shall taste

The joys I left langsyne?

As I drew near my ancient pile
My heart beat a' the way;

Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak
O' some dear former day;

Those days that followed me afar,

Those happy days o' mine,

Whilk made me think the present joys
A' naething to langsyne!

The ivied tower now met my eye,

Where minstrels used to blaw;
Nae friend stepped forth wi' open hand,
Nae weel-kenned face I saw ;
Till Donald tottered to the door,
Wham I left in his prime,
And grat to see the lad return
He bore about langsyne.

In vain I sought in music's sound
To find that magic art,
Which oft in Scotland's ancient lays
Has thrill'd through a' my heart.
The sang had mony an artfu' turn;
My ear confessed 'twas fine;
But missed the simple melody
I listened to langsyne.

Ye sons to comrades o' my youth,

Forgie an auld man's spleen,

Wha'midst your gayest scenes still mourns

The days he ance has seen.

When time has passed and seasons fled,

Your hearts will feel like mine;
And aye the sang will maist delight
That minds ye o' langsyne!

Richard Cecil.

Born 1748
Died 1810

AN eminent divine, born in London, and for many years one of the most eloquent preachers of the Church of England.

ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT AT DAYBREAK.

"CEASE then longer to detain me,

Fondest mother, drowned in woe;

Now thy kind caresses pain me ;
Morn advances,-let me go.

"See yon orient streak appearing,
Harbinger of endless day!

Hark! a voice, the darkness cheering,
Calls my new-born soul away.

"Lately launch'd, a trembling stranger,
On the wide world's boisterous flood,
Pierced with sorrows, toss'd with danger,
Gladly I return to God.

"Now my cries shall cease to grieve thee;

Now my aching heart find rest;

Kinder arms than thine receive me,
Softer pillows than thy breast.

(6 Weep not o'er these eyes that languish,
Upward turning to their home;
Raptured, they'll forget all anguish,
While they watch to see thee come.

"There, my mother, pleasures centre;-

Weeping, parting, care and woe

Ne'er our Father's house can enter:-
Day is breaking,-let me go.

"As, amidst this holy dawning,
Silent glides away my breath,
To an everlasting morning,-
Gently close mine eyes in death.
"Blessing endless, richest blessing,
Pour in streams upon thy heart!
(Though no language yet possessing,)
Breathes my spirit e'er we part.

"Yet to leave thee sorrowing pains me ;
Hark, again the voice I hear:
Now thy love no more detains me ;
Follow me, my mother dear."

John Logan.

(Born 1748

Died 1788.

LOGAN was born at Soutra, Mid-Lothian, in 1748. His father was a small farmer, and gave him a liberal education. While at the University he

wrote a number of short poems, which brought him into notice. Logan was educated for the Church, and was in 1770 ordained to the pastorate of South Leith. In 1779 he published a volume of his poems, which reached a second edition in a few inonths. This success induced him to write a tragedy, which, however, did not add to his reputation. Logan's parishioners, being dissatisfied with his engrossment in literary matters. clamoured for his resignation, and he ultimately retired on receiving a small annuity. He then went to London, where he obtained some literary employment, till his early death on 27th December 1788. Logan claimed to be the author of some hymns, which are adopted in nearly every collection for public worship; but there has been much controversy on the subject, some asserting that we are indebted for these to Michael Bruce.

THE COUNTRY IN AUTUMN.

'Tis past! no more the summer blooms!
Ascending in the rear,

Behold congenial autumn comes,

The Sabbath of the year!

What time thy holy whispers breathe,
The pensive evening shade beneath,

And twilight consecrates the floods;
While Nature strips her garment gay,
And wears the vesture of decay,

O let me wander through the sounding woods!
Ah! well-known streams!-ah! wonted groves,
Still pictured in my mind!

Oh! sacred scene of youthful loves,

Whose image lives behind!

While sad I ponder on the past,

The joys that must no longer last;

The wild-flower strown on summer's bier,

The dying music of the grove,

And the last elegies of love,

Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear.

Alas! misfortune's cloud unkind

May summer soon o'ercast!

And cruel fate's untimely wind

All human beauty blast!

The wrath of nature smites our bowers,

And promised fruits and cherished flowers,
The hopes of life in embryo sweeps ;
Pale o'er the ruins of his prime,

And desolate before his time,

In silence sad the mourner walks and weeps!