How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!
How rich the hawthorn's blossom!

As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder;

But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mould'ring now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

ROBERT BURNS.

She is far from the Land.

SHE is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers are round her sighing;

But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,

Every note which he loved awaking; Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had entwined him;

Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.