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HERE'S A HEALTH TO AULD SCOTIA.

A

SONG.

HERE's a health to auld Scotia, and dear Robie Burns,
The land of the thistle, the furze, and the ferns;
Braw chiels are they a’, frae the Ayr to the Dee,
Frae the Cheviot Hills, to the waves of the Spey.
There snowy Ben Nevis stands white as the moon,
And silver Loch Lomond, and dear "Bonnie Doon,"
And a thousand sweet spots that we clasp to each breast,
Made dear by the Bard to our hearts in the West !

Auld Scotia! auld Scotia ! how oft thy bright blades
Have flashed through the forest, and lighted the shades!
When clarion and pibroch burst forth in a peal,
Till a storm shook the hills from the clash of the steel!
But the tempest which raged through the firs and the

pines
Now sleeps, and the Rose with the Thistle entwines,
And high on Ben Lawers an Angel in mail
Doth wave the white banner of Peace in the gale.

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Then hail Caledonia ! the home of brave men,
And lassies, who grace every mountain and glen,
Like the flowers which bloom on the heather so bare,
’Mid the brown waving broom sae smiling and fair.
Fareweel to thee Robin ! the wee waters start
Out the springs of the 'ee, frae the well of the heart!
Thy memory we'll toast wherever Fate turns,
Wi' Scotland for ever! and auld Robie Burns !

HOME IN THE WEST.

A SONG

They may sing of the lands o'er the desert of brine,

Where the earth in its age has grown grey,
Where the bright rivers roll through the valleys of vine,

And the old castles fall to decay.
But give me the land where the sun goes to sleep

On the blue mountain's cloud-mantled crest,
And where rivers of gold through the green valleys

sweep Through the shades of the woods of the West.

There the Spring's reddest flowers are soonest to blush,

And the Summer grows crimson with fruit, And in Fall's purple bowers the sweet-throated thrush

Sings the day breeze to sleep with his lute.

There dark are the forests, and bright are the streams,

And the stranger is welcome as guest, Where the love-lighted eye of each young maiden

beams, From her green-bowered home in the West !

Oh! roam where you may from the Line to the Pole,

Thou shalt feel this wherever thou art: 'Tis the West where the sunshine falls in on the soul,

And illumines the depths of the heart !
And dear is each hand which they nobly extend,

Whose touch thrills at once through the breast,
For you feel 'tis the true honest clasp of a friend,

And your heart finds its home in the West !

There my friends have my faith, and the maid has my

love,
And in spirit there yet do I dwell,
For my soul to its ark, still returns like the dove,

And my lips still deny it farewell !
Oh! when my last sigh shall be breathed on the air,

And silent the throb of this breast,
I ask only this, as my bosom's last prayer,

Let me sleep my last sleep in the West !

M AR Y L Y L E.

A BALLA D.

'Twas when the brooks of Spring were blue,

And Western woods were green, My eyes first saw, my soul first knew

And owned my bosom's queen; The violet was in her eye,

The sunshine in her smile, And I was happy roving by

The side of Mary Lyle.

And when the silver sickles rung

Among the golden wheat,
When loud and gay the reapers sung,

Her voice was low and sweet;
Or leaning on their scythes, like Time,

All charmed were they the while-
But mine the heart that blessed the chime,

Of bonnie Mary Lyle.

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