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No griefs this warrior soul can bow,
No pangs contract this even brow;
Not all your threats excite a fear,
Not all your force can start a tear.
Think not with me my tribe decays,
More glorious chiefs the hatchet raise;
Nor unrevenged their Sachem dies,
Nor unattended greets the skies.


A MAROON SONG. HASTE, haste, my companions! the night dews are o'er;

[are flown; From the mist-skirted mountains the shadows The bright morning star calls to the chase of the boar,

[groan. And the rock's secret echoes are waiting his O'er the deep tangled thicketour toils shall prevail,

In vain to the steep cliff the savage shall run; Where the cocoa waves gay to the balm-scented

gale, And the aloe expands its tall spires to the sun. Ye spirits that triumph'd in death o'er your foe,

But left the dark sons of your race to complain; Ye that bade, in your anguish, the heirs of your woe

Be the heirs of your hatred, the chiefs of disdain; If ye sail in your pride on the sun's slanting beam, If ye robe your stern shades in the mist's fleet

ing form; Or if rather ye joy in the lightning's fierce gleam, And stride on the whirlwind, and trample the


0, come on your clouds, o'er the wide-rolling wave,

To the hills of our freedom in triumph repair; For the blue-mantled mountains are trod by the

brave, And the dark-dwelling sons of defiance are there. Hark! the horn's swelling tones call to danger away,

[pass’d, And when the stern course of our pleasure is Though the whirlwinds of heaven wake around us their sway,

[blast. We will heed not the tempest, and sing to the Haste, haste, my companions! the night dews are o'er;

[are flown; From the mist-skirted mountains the shadows The bright morning star calls to the chase of the boar,

(groan, And the rock's secret echoes are waiting his



ZEPHYR! whither are you straying,

Tell me where?
With prankish girls in gardens playing,

False as fair?
A butterfly's light back bestriding,
Queen bees to honeysuckles guiding,
Or in a swinging harebell riding,

Free from care?
Before Aurora's car you amble

High in air;
At noon, when Neptune's seanymphs gambol,

Braid their hair ;

When on the tumbling billows rolling,

Or on the smooth sands idly strolling, Or in cool grottos they lie lolling,

You sport there.

To chase the moonbeams up the mountains

You prepare ;
Or dance with elves on brinks of fountains,

Mirth to share;
Now seen with lovelorn lilies weeping,
Now with a blushing rosebud sleeping,
While fays, from forth their chambers peeping,

Cry, O rare!



WOULD you the fairy regions see,
Hence to the green woods run with me;
From mortals safe, the livelong night,
There countless feats the fays delight,
Where burns the glowworm's lamp so blue,
One gives each flower its proper hue;
While, near,

his busy huswife weaves
Ribands of grass and mantling leaves ;
Some teach young plants with grace to move,
Some lead the woodbine to her love,
Some strew the shores with shells and sand,
While others pilot weeds to land :
By moonlight these their labours free,

Then follow me, follow me,
And the chaffer's bugle our guide shall be.




REACH with your whiter hands to me

Some crystal of the spring ;
And I about the cup shall see

Fresh lilies flourishing :
Or else, sweet nymphs, do you but this;

To the glass your lips incline-
And I shall see, by that one kiss,
The water turn'd to wine.


THE POPLAR. No watchdog disturb’d the calm season of rest, And the daybeams were faintly the mountain

adorning; The night dew still hung on the eglantine's breast, And the shrill cock first broke the sweet silence

of morning. To the haunts of his childhood, the scenes of his

sport, A wanderer came in the stillness of sorrow, The magic of life's early vision to court, And the sweetest of hours from remembrance

to borrow. But the field of his culture was dreary and wild, And drear were the bowers where the rose once

was blowing; The dark weed had grown where the garden had smiled,

[glowing. And a wilderness spread where late beauty was

Yet one poplar survived, and was lofty and fair, 'Twas the pride of his youth, when its sun rose

enchanting; And Affection had treasured his memory there, And had hallow'd his name on the tree of his

planting. Unknown was the hand that thus witness'd its truth,

[beaming; Unknown was the heart with affection thus But the wanderer thought on the friend of his youth,

[were streaming. And his spirit was bless'd, though his tear-drops Thou flower of affection, entwining the heart, To deck the drear scene of our wanderings

given; Thy balm to our grief can its healing impart, And thy blossoms of light caught their beauty from heaven.



AND are you sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think of wark !

Mak haste, lay by your wheel;
Is this the time to spin a thread

When Colin's at the door!
Reach me my cloak, I'll to the quay

And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There is nae luck at aw;
There's little pleasure in the house

When our gudeman's awa.

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