Voluptuous melody to listening flowers,

And all of man, of earth, and air shall feel

What hate and darkness hurteth love and light can

heal!

*

*

William Thom.

ERE

Drumlee.

THE BRAES O' DRUMLEE.

RE eild wi' his blatters had warselled me down, Or reft me o' life's youthfu' bloom,

How aft ha'e I gane, wi' a heart louping light,

To the knowes yellow tappit wi' broom!
How aft ha'e I sat i' the beild o' the knowe,
While the laverock mounted sae hie,

An' the mavis sang sweet in the plantings around,
On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

But, ah! while we daff in the sunshine of youth,
We see nae the blasts that destroy;

We count nae upon the fell waes that may come,
An eithly o'ercloud a' our joy.

I saw nae the fause face that fortune can wear,
Till forced from my country to flee;

Wi' a heart like to burst, while I sobbed, “Farewell
To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee!

66

'Fareweel, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth, Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair;

Ye'll bloom whan I wander abroad like a ghaist,
Sair niddered wi' sorrow an' care.

Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh,

While the flood gushes down frae my e'e; For never again shall the tear wet my cheek, On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

"O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee!
Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"

Sae I took my departure, an' sauntered awa',
Yet aften looked wistfu' behind.

O, sair is the heart of the mither to part
Wi' the baby that sits on her knee;
But sairer the pang when I took a last peep
O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I heftit 'mang strangers years thretty-an'-twa,
But naething could banish my care;

An' aften I sighed when I thought on the past,
Whare a' was sae pleasant an' fair.

But now, wae 's my heart! whan I'm lyart an' auld,
An' fu' lint-white my haffet-locks flee,

I'm hamewards returned wi' a remnant o' life,
To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

Poor body! bewildered, I scarcely do ken
The haunts that were dear ance to me;
I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth,
An' the mavis now sings on the tree.

But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae;
For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee,

To think how at last my auld banes they will rest, Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

Richard Gall.

Dryburgh Abbey.

AT THE GRAVE OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.

THOU

THOU slumberest with the noble dead
In Dryburgh's solemn pile,
Amid the peers and warriors bold,
And mitred abbots stern and old,
Who sleep in sculptured aisle ;
Where, stained with dust of buried years,
The rude sarcophagus appears

In mould imbedded deep;

And Scotia's skies with azure gleaming,
Are through the oriel windows streaming,
Where ivied masses creep;

And, touched with symmetry sublime,
The moss-clad towers that mock at time

Their mouldering legends keep.

Lydia Huntley Sigourney.

THE

Dumblane (Dunblane).

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

HE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin, To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom!
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green;
Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening; Thou 'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen: Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,

Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie !
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain ;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
Robert Tannahill.

Dunbar.

NEAR DUNBAR.

ERE Cromwell stood, that dark and frowning night,

Hemmel in upon this desperate tongue of land,

The sea behind, the sea on either hand,

And, fronting him, the foe on yonder height.
What chance for Cromwell in to-morrow's fight,
If thus the order of the battle stand!

He was but captain, the supreme command
He knew was His who, to the most lorn right,
Oft gives mysterious victory. And so,
Armed with this faith, of fear he never dreamed.
For ever with that man a Power there seemed,
That conquered first the judgment of his foe,
Then gave an easy field. So would it be
With all who owned as deep a trust as he.

Robert Leighton.

Dundee.

THE BIRKIE OF BONNIE DUNDEE.

YE fair lands of Angus and bonnie Dundee,

How dear are your echoes, your memories to me! At gatherings and meetings in a' the braw toons, I danced wi' the lasses and distanced the loons; Syne bantered them gayly, and bade the young men