Farewell.

The much-lov'd tow'r, that overlooks thy stream,
Perchance may fall, and moulder to decay,

And the fair halls may list the owlet's scream,
That once replied to harp and roundelay.
Upon the hearth, where now in flickering play
The flames contend, the gloomy grass may grow;
In sylvan bow'r, once graced by lady gay,

A home and refuge the hill-fox may know,
And where now mortals joy, spirits may shriek in wo
Yet I would love thee in thy misery,

Perhaps ev'n more than now-for dark distress
Holds some strange union with me-and I fly
To scenes of desolation: wretchedness

Hath been no beacon to me; nor the less
Did I refrain to grasp the luring rose,

That the thorn pricked me. But enough of thisWhate'er my joys, my passions, or my woes, Glenlara, in my breast no conquering rival knows.

And oh! that I could all thy beauties tell,
And give to air one minstrel song of thee,
That I could consecrate the spot where dwell
Those that I love, by note of harmony.
Or that some worthier Poet would wake high
The name that I in vain essay to raise,
And swell with loftier cadence to the sky,
With softer tones, but not with warmer praise,

Than him whose wilding lyrę awakes these lowly lays.

Alas! the hand is cold and bloodless now, That erst could sweep with fire a thrilling string, And gone the minstrel, whose seraphic flow Of music it's sweet warbling notes did fling On the lone ear, while winds were listening, And ruin'd tower, and tree, and cavern riv'n, Seem'd sooth'd, by the strange cadence whisperingInspir'd M'Niel !* has sought his native heav'n! A gift how dear! but ah, how seldom giv'n!

* Hector M'Niel, Esq. Author of Will and Jean, &c.

The Patriot.

Farewell Glenlara! yet, again farewell,
Sadly I turn me from thy lovely shore,
As from my ken recedes thy haunted dell,
I almost deem we part for evermore;
But tho' to me is giv'n no prophet's lore,
I will believe that we shall meet again,
That I shall seek thy cliffs and caverns hoar,
And press with joy thy emerald velvet plain,
What time I turning cross Atlanta's heaving main.

11th February, 1819.

X. Y. Z.

THE PATRIOT.

On the field of the brave where the patriot has bled,
I would weep o'er the green turf inclosing his head,
I would shed the fond tear o'er his honour'd remains,
And embalm in my soul what the cold earth contains.

The shades of the valiant are fled to afar,
And the mighty are number'd the victims of war;
But the patriot rejoices in freedom redeemed,
Since the morning of bright independency beamed

Hope brightens his visage, and watches his eye,
And virtue descends to his soul from the sky;
To every affection new impulse is given,
The weapons of earth to the spirit of heaven.

who would not flee to the fields of the brave,
O who would not envy the patriot his grave?
Where laurels of freedom immortal shall bloom,
Memorials for ages preserved in the tomb.

Yes, years yet unnumbered shall cherish his fame,
And ages unborn exult in his name;

Till the cloud of eternity veils from the sight,
And sinks the long train of transactions in night.

10th March, 1819.

SCOTUS.

Song

EPITAPH

In the Naval burying ground, Lemon-Valley, St. Helena, over the grave of the Carpenter of H. M. S. Bucephalus, who died 6th June, 1816.

What though on this sequestered dell

No genial flower is seen to bloom,
Nor ever heard the sacred knell

That tolls a requiem o'er the tomb?

What though no church 'mid scenes so drear,

Diffuses holy influence round?

The ashes of the just lie here,

And consecrate the hallowed ground.

W. B

SONG.

TUNE-"Yon Burn-side."

TO MARCUS.

Sin' Fortune seems to smile on thee, my ain dear Frien',
Į maist forget she glooms on me, my ain dear Frien’;
An' why shou'd I repine,

Or allow sweet Hope to dwine,

Whan I ken your best-wal'd wish is mine, my ain dear Frien'.

Whan ithers seek the busy thrang, my ain dear Frien',
An' steal the listless crowd amang, my ain dear Frien',
In the green leaf-shaded bow'r

We spen' the harmless hour,

An' laugh at fickle Fortune's lour, my ain dear Frien'.

The fause delight the wanton feels, my ain dear Frien';
A deadly 'venom'd sting conceals, my ain dear Frien',
But Frien'ship's purer joys

Are wisdom's happier choice,

An' discontent gi'ęs nae annoys, my ain dear Frien'.

The sick'nin' pleasures o' the bowl, my ain dear Frien',
Ser'e but to cloud the lightsome soul, my ain dear Frien'.
The dissipated sot

Abuses Nature's lot,

Nor kens the sweets in Frien'ship got, my ain dear Frien

Song.

The lover's happy wi' his lass, my ain dear Frien',
Nae ither cares his min' harrass, my ain dear Frien';
But nae joy beside I find

Like the raptures o' the mind,

In mutual Frien'ship firmly join'd, my ain dear Frien'.

Then let our souls in ane unite, my ain dear Frien',
Nae pow'r our harmony will blight, my ain dear Frien',
Our hearts are ithers, ain,

And ever will remain,

Till death hath burst the tender chain, my ain dear Frien

BEANSBURN, 1819.

ROSCIUS.

Extracts from New Publications.

Extracts from "Poems and Songs by the late Richard Gall. -Edin 1819. pp. 168. price 7s. 6d.

In the course of last month a small volume of "Poems and Songs by the late Richard Gall," has been given to the world -This we consider an act of justice to the memory of departed genius, that thus the public may award the tribute of their admiration no longer to an unknown name. Some of his songs have been long known to us, and

have obtained "a name and a remembrance" in the records of our Scottish minstrelsy, We need only mention " My only joe and dearie, O," an exquisite production, adapted to one of our finest airs; and "Farewell to Ayrshire," which has been generally ascribed to Burns. We open the volume at random and present our readers with two very fine Songs.

SONG.

As I came through Glendochart vale,

Whare mists o'ertap the mountain gray,

A wee bit lassie met my view,

As cantily she held her way:

But O sic love each feature bore,

She made my saul wi' rapture glow!

Hazlewood witch.

An' aye she spak sae kind an' sweet,
I could na keep my heart in tow.
O speak na o' your courtly queens!
My wee bit lassie fools them a';
The little cuttie's dune me skaith,

She's stown my thoughtless heart awa'.
Her smile was like the grey-ey'd morn,
When spreading on the mountain green;
Her voice saft as the mavis sang,

An' sweet the twinkle o' her een; Aboon her brow sae bonny brent, Her raven locks waved o'er her e'e, An' ilka slee bewitching glance Convey'd a dart o' love to me.

O speak na o' your courtly queens, &c

The lasses fair in Scotia's isle,

Their beauties a' what tongue can tell? But o'er the fairest o' them a'

My wee bit lassie bears the bell. O had I never mark'd her smile, Or seen the twinkle o' her e'e, It might na been my lot the day, A waefu' lade o' care to dree.

O speak na o' your courtly queens, &c

THE HAZLEWOOD WITCH.

For mony lang year I hae heard frae my grannie,
Of brownies an' bogles by yon castle wa',
Of auld wither'd hags that were never thought cannie,
An fairies that danc'd till they heard the cock craw.
I leugh at their tales; an' last owk i' the gloamin',
I dander'd, alane, down the Hazlewood green;
Alas! I was reckless, an' rue sair my roamin',

For I met a young witch, wi',twa bonny black een.

I thought o' the starns in a frosty night glancing,
Whan a' the lift round them is cloudless and' blue;
I looked again, an' my heart fell a dancing;

Whan I wad hae spoken she glamoured my mou'.
O wae to her cantraips! for dumpish'd I wander;
At kirk or at market there's nought to be seen:
For she dances afore me wherever I dander,

The Hazlewood witch wi' the bonny black een.