Her eyes, what soft enchantments fill !
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

Let Athol boast her birchen bowers,
And Lomond of her isles so green,
And Windermere her woodland shores,
Our Ettrick boasts a sweeter scene:
For there the evening twilight swells
With many a wild and melting strain;
And there the pride of beauty dwells,
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

If Heaven shall keep her aye as good
And bonnie as she wont to be,
The world may into Ettrick crowd,
And nature's first perfection see.
Glencoe has drawn the wanderer's eye,
And Staffa in the western main;
These natural wonders ne'er can vie
Wi' the bonnie lass of Deloraine.

May health still cheer her beauteous face,
And round her brow may honor twine,
And Heaven preserve that heart in peace,
Where meekness, love, and beauty join!
But all her joys shall cheer my heart,
And all her griefs shall give me pain;
For never from my soul shall part

The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

James Hogg.

Devon, the River.

ON A YOUNG LADY.

HOW pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew,
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay-gilded lilies,

And England triumphant display her proud rose; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

Robert Burns.

SING ON, FAIRY DEVON.

SING on, fairy Devon,

'Mong gardens and bowers, Where love's feast lies spread

In an Eden o' flowers.
What visions o' beauty
My mind has possessed,
In thy gowany dell
Where a seraph might rest.

Sing on, lovely river,
To hillock and tree
A lay o' the loves
O' my Jessie an' me;
For nae angel lightin',
A posie to pu',

Can match the fair form
O' the lassie I lo'e.

Sweet river, dear river,
Sing on in your glee,
In thy pure breast the mind

O' my Jessie I see.

How aft ha’e I wandered,

As gray gloamin' fell,

Rare dreamins o' heaven

My lassie to tell.

Sing on, lovely Devon,

The sang that ye sung

When earth in her beauty
Frae night's bosom sprung,
For lanesome and eerie
This warld aye would be

Did clouds ever fa'

Atween Jessie and me.

John Crawford.

Doon, the River.

THE BANKS OF DOON.

E banks and braes of bonnie Doon,

YR

any

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair!

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed never to return.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; And my fause luver stole my rose,

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns.

Don, the River.

ADDRESS TO THE DON.

DON rises in Strathdon, and receives (besides other small rivers) Nochty, from Invernochty, Bucket, from Glenbucket, and Ury, from Inverary, parishes. It falls into the sea at Old Aberdeen, where it has a fair bridge of one arch, built it is supposed about A. D. 1320, by King Robert Bruce, while this see was vacant by the flight of Bishop Cheyne, the bridge of Balgownie, celebrated by Lord Byron's reminiscences.

DARK with all too well bespeak

ARK Don, thy water's rude repulsive scowl

The upland ravages, the conflict bleak

Of mountain winter; and the maddened howl
Of bruiting elements, distraught and foul,
Have ruffled thy fair course and choked thy braes.
Love flies affrightened at thy swollen look;
The laverock may not hear its own sweet lays
O'er thy fierce chafings, and the timid brook
Sinks tremblingly amid thy surfy maze,

Thou cold remembrancer of wilder human ways!

So soiled the social tide by some cursed deed
Of ancient ruffian or fool, so ages read
To weeping worlds of hearts that bled,

Of patriots and sages that have died
Ere that broad stream was half repurified.
Roll thy dark waters, Don, we yet shall see

On thy bright bosom the fair symmetry

Of vaulted heaven, when the shrill lark pours