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Amid the bow'r, with woodbines wove,
Throughout the flower-enamell’d grove,
The humming bees unwearied rove,

Gay blooming sweets among;
The chearful birds, of varied hue,
Their sweet meand'ring notes pursue;
High soars the lark, and lost to view,

Pours forth his grateful song.
The wand'ring brook-the glitt'ring rill,
The Cuckoo's note heard from the hill,
The warb'ling thrush and black-bird shrill,

Inspire with rapt'rous glee:
Then join the choir, each nymph and swain,
Thro' ev'ry grove, and flow'ry plain,
Till hills resound the joyful strain,

Harmonious to each tree.


Dark lours the night o'er the wide stormy main,
Till mild rosy morning rise cheerful again :
Alas! morn returns to revisit the shore,
But Connel returns to his Flora no more,

* This song is from the pen of Mr. Wilson, whose poetical talents and history our readers have been made in some degree acquainted with in the Scottish department of this work; and we are happy to correct a mistake we had fallen into in Volume I. page 317, in stating Mr. Neilson as the printer of a poetical satire, which he has been kind enough to inform us is not the

We would be sorry to be the propagators of calumny of any kind, much more of unfounded statements, and therefore gladly make all the reparation in our power by this acknowledgment.


For see on yon mountain, the dark cloud of death
O'er Connel's lone cottage lies low on the heath,
While bloody and pale, on a far distant shore,
He lies to return to his Flora no more.
Ye light fleeting spirits that glide o'er yon steep,
O would ye but waft me across the wild deep !
There fearless I'd mix in the battle's loud roar-
I'd die with my Connel, and leave him no more.

'Twas on the Wolga rolling dark,

With strong and heavy tide,
Young Loskoff launch'd his little bark

To leave his blooming bride.
Go not, my love, to-day from home,

'Tis Mosca that implores;
See how the angry waters foam,

Hark, how the tempest roars.
I heed not winds, or waves, said he,

Nor fear the swelling tide!
At night I will return to thee,

My young and blooming bride.
Night came, and Mosca still was seen

Upon the beaten shore:
The storm is past, the sky serene,

But he returns no more.
The moon m on the waters play'd,

Reflected by her tear;
The night-bird scream'd as on she stray'd,

Her bosom throbb'd with fear!
At length his form upon the wave

Her straining eye descry'd;
She sunk, and clasp'd him in the grave,

A young and blooming bride!


As pensive one night in my garret I sat,

My last shilling produc'd on the table,
That advent'rer, cried I, might a hist'ry relate,

If to think and to speak it were able;
Whether fancy or magic 'twas play'd me the freak,

The face seem'd with life to be filling,
And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak,

Pay attention to me thy last shilling.
I was once the last coin of the law, a sad limb,

Who in cheating was ne'er known to faulter; 'Till at length brought to justice, the law cheated him,

And he paid me to buy him a halter;
A Jack tar, all his rhino but me at an end,

With a pleasure so hearty and willing,
Though hungry himself, to a poor distress’d friend,

Wish'd it hundreds, and gave his last shilling.

'Twas the wife of his messmate, whose glist’ning eye

With pleasure ran o'er, as she view'd me; She chang’d me for bread, as her child she heard cry,

And at parting, with tears she bedew'd me: But I've other scenes known, riot leading the way,

Pale want their poor families chilling; Where rakes in their ravels, the piper to pay,

Have spurn'd me, their best friend and last shilling. Thou thyself hast been thoughtless, for profligates bail

, But to-morrow all care shalt thou bury; When

my little hist’ry, thou offerest for sale: In the interim, spend me and be merry! Never, never, cried I, thou'rt my mentor, my muse,

And grateful, thy dictates fulfilling, I'll hoard thee in my heart. Thus men counsel refuse,

Till the lecture comes from the last shilling.


Wuy heaves that soft bosom, my maiden so fair?

Why starts thus the tear in thine eye? Sure thy soul is not canker'd, or worn out with care, That

you vent yourself thus with a sigh. Ah! grey beard, thou’rt old, the fair maiden replied,

And forget'st in the days that are gone,
How to frail ones like me you have ogled and sighed,

And left them to grieve when alone.
I long'd for a lover-a lover there came,

He vow'd, and I lov’d in return;
A year soon flew over-he still was the same,

And still my love stronger did burn.
But rash judging woman! how soon are thy joys,

How soon are thy hopes from thee torn!
'Twas but yesterday's sun that had made me rejoice,

And now he has left me to mourn.



The war, that for a space did fail,
Now, trebly thund'ring, swell'd the gale,

And Stanley! was the cry.


A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fir'd his glaring eye;
With dying hand above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted victory!
Charge, Chester, charge ! on, Stanley, on!"
Were the last words of Marmion.


Talk not of love, it gives me pain,

For love has been my foe;
He bound me with an iron chain,

And plung’d me deep in woe.
But friendship's pure and lasting joys,

My heart was form’d to prove;
There, welcome win and wear the prize,

But never talk of love.
Your friendship much can make me blest,

Oh, why that bless destroy !
Why urge the only one request

You know I will deny!
Your thought, if love must harbour there,

Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear

The very friend I sought.


* We owe this piece to Burns's mysterious correspondent, hi much admired CLARINDA. It is a noble production, and certainly justifies the unceasing compliment he pays her in his letters, foi her refined taste and great mental endowments. The world i certainly much indebted to this amiable woman for those docu ments which, besides exhibiting many points of our Bard's cha racter, much to his praise, indisputably prove his merits as prose writer to be of the highest kind. This is not the only tim his fair friend had engaged the muses to their correspondence as the reader will see by the following extract from No. VII of his letters to that lady :-"Your last verses to me have s delighted me, that I have got an excellent old Scots air, tha suits the measure, and you shall see them in print in the Scoto Musical Museum. The latter half of the first stanza would har been worthy of Sappho; I am in raptures with it. The air is The Banks of Spey, and is most beautiful.”

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