She wandered weary by the shore,

An' murmured aft his name sae dear; Till owre Dalmeny's dewy dells

The silver moon shone sweet an' clear. An' saft the tremblin' breezes sighed,

As far she strayed, in hopeless sorrow: "O, lanely, lanely lies thy luve;

An' cauld's the nicht that brings nae morrow!

James Smith.

T

Dee, the River.

THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

WAS summer, and softly the breezes were blowing, And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree At the foot of a rock where the river was flowing, I sat myself down on the banks of the Dee. Flow on, lovely Dee, flow on, thou sweet river, Thy banks' purest stream shall be dear to me ever, For there first I gained the affection and favor

Of Jamie, the glory and pride of the Dee.

But now he's gone from me, and left me thus mourning,
To quell the proud rebels, for valiant is he;
And, ah! there's no hope of his speedy returning,
To wander again on the banks of the Dee.
He's gone, hapless youth! o'er the rude roaring billows,
The kindest and sweetest of all the gay fellows,

And left me to wander 'mongst those once loved willows, The loneliest maid on the banks of the Dee.

But time and my prayers may perhaps yet restore him,
Blest peace may restore my dear shepherd to me;
And when he returns, with such care I'll watch o'er him,
He never shall leave the sweet banks of the Dee.
The Dee then shall flow, all its beauties displaying,
The lambs on its banks shall again be seen playing,
While I with my Jamie am carelessly straying,
And tasting again all the sweets of the Dee.

John Tait.

THE

ON THE BANKS OF THE DEE.

HE moon had climbed the highest hill
That rises o'er the banks of Dee,
Aud from her farthest summit poured

Her silver light o'er tower and tree,

When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea,
And soft and low a voice she heard,
Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me."

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to see who there might be;
She saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With pallid cheek and hollow ee.

"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;
It lies beneath the stormy sea ;

The storm is past, and I'm at rest
So, Mary, weep no more for me.'

دو

;

Loud crew the cock; the vision fled;
No more young Sandy could she see;
But soft a parting whisper said,
"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me."

Anonymous.

Deloraine.

THE LASS OF DELORAINE.

TILL must my pipe lie idly by,

STILL

And worldly cares my mind annoy?

Again its softest notes I'll try,

So dear a theme can never cloy. Last time my mountain harp I strung,

'T was she inspired the simple strain, That lovely flower, so sweet and young, The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

How blest the breeze's balmy sighs
Around her ruddy lips that blow;
The flower that in her bosom dies,
Or grass that bends beneath her toe.
Her cheeks, endowed with powers at will,
The rose's richest shade to drain;

Her eyes, what soft enchantments fill!
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

Let Athol boast her birchen bowers,
And Lomond of her isles so green,
And Windermere her woodland shores,
Our Ettrick boasts a sweeter scene:
For there the evening twilight swells
With many a wild and melting strain;
And there the pride of beauty dwells,
The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

If Heaven shall keep her aye as good
And bonnie as she wont to be,
The world may into Ettrick crowd,
And nature's first perfection see.
Glencoe has drawn the wanderer's eye,
And Staffa in the western main;
These natural wonders ne'er can vie
Wi' the bonnie lass of Deloraine.

May health still cheer her beauteous face,
And round her brow may honor twine,
And Heaven preserve that heart in peace,
Where meekness, love, and beauty join!
But all her joys shall cheer my heart,

And all her griefs shall give me pain;
For never from my soul shall part

The bonnie lass of Deloraine.

James Hogg.

Devon, the River.

ON A YOUNG LADY.

HOW pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers bloom

ing fair!

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew,
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay-gilded lilies,

And England triumphant display her proud rose; A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

Robert Burns.