The Maid of Lochlin's Lament

of Scotland, Ayr, to Miss Isabella Tod, youngest daughter of the late Rev. Mich. Tod, Minister of Dreghorn.

19th, At Kilmarnock, the Rev. Robert Stirling to Miss Jane, eldest daughter of Mr. William Rankin, Merchant.

DEATHS.

June 18th, At Glasgow, Mr. John Hepburn, Writing master in the 57th year of his age; and on the 21st, his son James, aged 11, who was in good health at the time of his father's death.

21st, At Newton, upon Ayr, Mr. James Turner, aged 100. He was a serjeant in the King's army in the year 1745.

July 3d, At Paris, Hugh Crawfurd, Esq. late of Greenock, and one of the magistrates of that town-much and justly regretted. 3d, James Hill Esq. of Busby,

12th, At Sanquhar, near Ayr, in the 37th year of his age, Mr. George Hendry, farmer.

At Cumnock, Mr. Charles Macvitie, aged 72.

19th, At Glasgow, Margaret Mirrlees, wife of Mr. James Lumsden, Junior.

Poetry.

THE MAID OF LOCHLIN'S LAMENT.

Lochlin's wild is bleak and dreary,
Lochlin's vale is cold and weary,
But through Lochlin's dreary sadness,-
I could walk in peace and gladness;
When my Highland lad was near me,
With his loving voice to cheer me.

In Trafalgar's ocean gory,
Sound he slumbers in his glory,
Closed these eyes with love beguiling,
Pale those lips on Mary smiling,
Ev'ry living voice disdaining-
Ah! he hears not my complaining!
Lochlin's vales no longer cheer him,
Mary's love no more is near him.

Haste thou cruel raving billow,
Waft me to his lonely pillow;

Merry is the lark at the rise of sun,

Heaven-ward soaring, sweetly singing,

And cheerful is the thrush when the day is done,
I hear his notes in the woodlands ringing.

But Juliet was merrier, aud sweeter could sing;
Her voice like the zephyrs that breathe in the spring,
No bird of the Summer, no songster of May,
So cheerful, so lively, so lightsome and gay.
Now Romeo is gone, and her gladness is o'er.
The lord of her bosom can see her no more.

Sweetly they embraced in the jasmine bower,
Fondly, loving, heaven approving;
Cupid all the while was their guardian power,➡
O for the joys of his improving

Happy is the pair whom love unites

In its nameless joys, in its sweet delights;
They live unconcern'd for the future and past,
And deem that their pleasures forever will last.
But Juliet, the loss of her love must deplore.
The lord of her bosom can see her no more.

The note of the nightingale is sad 'neath the moon,
Merrier songsters then reposing,

The turtle-dove mourns 'mong the woods at noon,

Or sighs to the gale when the day is closing.

To the Clyde.

Love is the cause of their plaintive strains;
Their bosoms are full of its woes and its pains;
So Juliet sweet maid, since her Romeo is gone,
Does nothing but weep in the woodlands alone,
No rose on her cheek, once so lovely before.
The lord of her bosom can see her no more.

July, 1819.

TO THE CLYDE.

Fair Clyde, by the banks that encircle thy wave
Scarce a murmur is heard by the streams as they lave,
But the tide in thy channel flows softly away,
Overhung with the caverns obscured from the day.

The Blackbird is warbling in yon woody glen,
That guides thy sweet waters along in its den,
But the blackbird that sings in the green elm tree,
Gives no such delights as thy waters to me.

The voice of my Mary is heard on thy stream,
Like a sound which arrests the repose of a dream,
For save the calm murmurs which fall on the ear,
Not a vestige of sound may be lingering here.

In the shades of the eve, when the morning has gone,
I wander thy banks, with my Mary alone,

No cares can disturb us when deep in the grove,
We linger awhile in delight and in love.

Then flow in thy glory fair Clutha, awhile,
When the summer is decked in her beautiful smile,
For the dark gloomy winter, in horror shall sweep,
And scatter dispair o'er the land and the deep.

Flow gently away while my Mary is seen,

The flower of the Clyde, and the rose of the green,

H

Written after reading an account of the execution of Count de Falh, a French noble man, who fell a victim to the fury of the revolutionary spirit, at the close of the last century. He was endued with a large portion of that infidelity then so common among his unhappy countrymen. A description of his feelings within a few hours of his death is here attempted.

*

And what is death? What is't to die?

To sink in dust, ne'er more to rise;
There with the foul worm long to lie,
And give thy vitals, precious prize!
To feed and foster thy worst enemies.-
—Yes—ere to-morrow's sun shall spread
His splendid livery o'er the morn,—
Thou shalt be nought-thy doom's decreed-
One short hour past-and thou art borne
Whence there is no return.

Thou hast no friend-no wife to mourn
Thy melancholy fate-and soothe

Thy passage o'er th' engulphing bourne
That borders on eternity.-

-Thou hast no priest-no holy leech

To curse thy dying hours-and tell

His tale of other worlds--and teach

The bliss of Heaven-the blasting curse of Hell,
And other such like lies.--

*