Mid which gleamed Cunning's scapulaire,

And War's unshrinking sword.

And, in their rusty hauberks,

Thronged past the plaided bands;
And slanting lay the Norsemen's keels

On ocean's dreary sands;
And on the long flat moorlands,

The cairn, with lichens gray,

Marked where their souls shrieked forth in blood, On Battle's iron day.

Between me and the sea loomed out
The ivied Abbey old,

In whose grim vaults the Bruces kneel
In marble quaint and cold;

And where, inurned, lies hid the heart
Of young Kinloss deplored,

Whose blood, by Belgium's Oster-Scheldt,
Stained Sackville's ruthless sword

Waned all these trancèd visions;

But, on my eerie sight,
Remained the old dim seaport
Beneath the scowl of night;

The sea-mews for their island cliffs
Had left the homeless sky,
And only to the dirgeful blast
The wild seas made reply.

David Macbeth Moir.

Dalmeny.

DOUN FAIR DALMENY'S ROSY DELLS.

OUN fair Dalmeny's rosy dells

DOUN

Sweet Mary wandered, sad an' wae;

The sunlicht faded owre the lea,

An' cheerless fell the simmer day. The warblin' mavis sang nae mair,

As aft she sighed, in heavy sorrow:

"O, lanely, lanely lies my luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!

"By yonder hoary castle wa',

Where murmurs deep the dark blue sea,

I wearied sair the langsome nicht,

Till tears bedimmed my sleepless ee.

The boat gaed down by Cramond's isle,

O, weary fa' that nicht o' sorrow!

For lanely, lanely lies my luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!"

O foaming waves, that took my luve, -
My ain true-luve, beyond compare!

O, will I see his winsome form,

An' hear his dear lo'ed voice nae mair?" Fu' deep the snaw-white surges moaned: "O, sair 's the burden o' thy sorrow;

For lanely, lanely lies thy luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!"

She wandered weary by the shore,

An' murmured aft his name sae dear;
Till owre Dalmeny's dewy dells

The silver moon shone sweet an' clear.
An' saft the tremblin' breezes sighed,
As far she strayed, in hopeless sorrow:
"O, lanely, lanely lies thy luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!"

James Smith.

'T

Dee, the River.

THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

WAS summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee. Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river, Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever, For there first I gained the affection and favor Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning,
To quell the proud rebels, — for valiant is he;
And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning,
To wander again on the banks of the Dee.
He's gone, hapless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows,
The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows,

And left me to wander 'mongst those once loved willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him,
Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me;
And when he returns, with such care I'll watch o'er him,
He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee.
The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying,
The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing,
While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying,
And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

John Tait.

ON THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

That rises o'er the banks of Dee,
HE moon had climbed the highest hill

Aud from her farthest summit poured

Her silver light o'er tower and tree,

When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
And soft and low a voice she heard,
Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me."

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to see who there might be;
She saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With pallid cheek and hollow ee.

"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath the stormy sea;

The storm is past, and I'm at rest;
So, Mary, weep no more for me."

Loud crew the cock; the vision fled;
No more young Sandy could she see;
But soft a parting whisper said,
"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me."

Anonymous.

Deloraine.

THE LASS OF DELORAINE.

TILL must my pipe lie idly by,

STILL

And worldly cares my mind annoy?

Again its softest notes I'll try,

So dear a theme can never cloy. Last time my mountain harp I strung,

'T was she inspired the simple strain, — That lovely flower, so sweet and young, The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

How blest the breeze's balmy sighs
Around her ruddy lips that blow ;
The flower that in her bosom dies,
Or grass that bends beneath her toe.
Her cheeks, endowed with powers at will,
The rose's richest shade to drain;