Your smile, that is blither than ony,
The bend o' your cheerfu' eebree,

An' the sweet blinks o' love there sae bonny,
Are five hunder thousand to me!

She turn'd her around, an' said, smiling,
While the tear in her blue eye shone clear,
"You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,
For, O, you hae valued it dear:

Gae make out the lease, do not linger,
Let the parson indorse the decree;
An' then, for a wave o' your finger,
I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!"

There's joy in the bright blooming feature,
When love lurks in every young line;
There's joy in the beauties of nature,
There's joy in the dance and the wine:
But there's a delight will ne'er perish,
'Mang pleasures all fleeting an' vain,
And that is to love and to cherish

The fond little heart that's our ain!

THE MINSTREL BOY.

THE Minstrel Boy to the glen is gone,
In its deepest dells you'll find him,
Where echoes sing to his music's tone,
And fairies listen behind him.

He sings of nature all in her prime,

Of sweets that around him hover,

Of mountain heath and moorland thyme,
And trifles that tell the lover.

How wildly sweet is the minstrel's lay,
Through cliffs and wild woods ringing,
For, ah! there is love to beacon his way,
And hope in the song he's singing !
The bard may indite, and the minstrel sing,
And maidens may chorus it rarely;

But unless there be love in the heart within,
The ditty will charm but sparely.

FAREWELL TO GLEN-SHALLOCH.

FAREWELL to Glen-Shalloch.

A farewell for ever!

Farewell to my wee cot

That stands by the river!

The fall is loud sounding
In voices that vary,
And the echoes surrounding
Lament with my Mary.

I saw her last night,

'Mid the rocks that enclose them,

With a child at her knee,

And a child at her bosom :

I heard her sweet voice

'Mid the depth of my slumber,

And the sang that she sung

Was of sorrow and cumber.

How our laurels are withering ;

I'll bind on thy sword

When the clansmen are gathering;

I'll bid thee go forth

In the cause of true honour,

And never return

Till thy country hath won her!

"Our tower of devotion

Is the house of the reaver;

The pride of the ocean

Is fallen for ever!

The pride of the forest,

That time could not weaken,

Is trod in the dust,

And its honours are shaken !

Rise, spirits of yore,

Ever dauntless in danger!
For the land that was yours
Is the land of the stranger.
O come from your caverns,
All bloodless and hoary,
And these fiends of the valley
Shall tremble before ye!"

CALEDONIA.

CALEDONIA thou land of the mountain and rock,
Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind-
Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak.
Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:

Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,
Though bleak thy dun islands appear,

Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,
That roam on these mountains so drear!

A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,
Could never thy ardour restrain ;
The marshall'd array of imperial Rome
Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain !
Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,
Of genius unshackled and free,

The muses have left all the vales of the south,
My loved Caledonia, for thee!

Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,
Where loveliness slumbers at even,

While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps
A calm little motionless heaven!

Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,
Of the storm and the proud rolling wave-
Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,
And the land of my forefathers' grave!

THE LAIRD O' LAMINGTON.

CAN I bear to part wi' thee,
Never mair your face to see ?

Can I bear to part wi' thee,

Drunken Laird o' Lamington ?

Canty war ye o'er your kale,
Toddy jugs, an' caups o' ale,

Heart aye kind, an' leel, an' hale,
Honest Laird o' Lamington.

He that swears is but so so,

He that lies to hell must go,

He that falls in bagnio,

Falls in the devil's frying-pan.
Wha wa'st ne'er pat aith to word?
Never lied for duke nor lord?

Never sat at sinfu' board?

The Honest Laird o' Lamington.

He that cheats can ne'er be just;
He that prays is ne'er to trust;