"Farewell, dear renown," cried the auld lyart veteran; "For Malcolm nae mair will be seen on the field Wi' death warsling dourly, his faes bravely scatterin'; The sword o' a sodger his arm downa wield.

But here though he wanders wi' eild heavy laden, And joyless gaes hirplin' down life's briary brae, He ance strade to glory, through bluid bravely wadin', Whar great Abercrombie, his chief, led the way. Illustrious leader! now stalking wi' heroes,

Wha bled for our country, our king, and our laws, When freedom unfurls her banner, be near us,

And rouse Scottish valour to stand in her cause.

By thee, led to victory, the sodger undaunted,

In wild transport fir'd at the loud shouts o' war, O'er heaps rush'd to glory, the breach boldly mounted, Though death arm'd wi' terror his courage to scaur. Auld Scotia may lang on the heath wander cheerless, And mourn as she sits by the sad sounding wave, The prime o' her warriors, intrepid, and fearless,— The brave Abercrombie lies cauld in the grave!"

OH! WHAT IS THE GAIN OF RESTLESS CARE.
OH! what is the gain of restless care,
And what is ambition's treasure,

And what are the joys which the modish share,
In their haunts of sickly pleasure.

The shade with its silence, oh! is it not sweet,
And to lie in the sun by the fountain,
And the wild flower's scent at eve to meet,
And to rove o'er the heath and the mountain.

Oh! where is the morning seen to rise,
The violet mark'd as 'tis springing;
The zephyr heard as at eve it sighs,
The blackbird lov'd for its singing?
Oh! there can alone the heart be gay,
The thought be free from sorrow,
And soft the night and short the day,
And welcome again the morrow.

*

GO WHERE WAR.

AN ANSWER TO "MY LOVE IS BREATHING A PRAYER FOR ME."

Go where war and thy country calls thee,
Guardian angels thy course attend;
Heav'n its special protection grant thee
Till the troubles of nations end.

When the loud wind howls round my dwelling,
When the rude tempest ruffles the sea,
My thoughts shall waft me where thou art sailing;
Then I'll be breathing a prayer for thee.

Take this jewel from off my finger;

See 'tis bath'd with a tender tear;

"Twill thy fancy induce to linger

On the maid whom you call so dear.

This song is by Mr. WILLIAM SMYTH of Cambridge, a specimen of whose admirable lyrics we have already given from Mr. THOMSON'S Irish Melodies. In the most trivial of his pieces there is a copious richness of those bold and beautiful strokes, which are characteristic of strong natural genius, and which he has every where softened by the most exalted purity of senti

ment.

But should some fairer,-happier rival
All thy affection tear from me-

My heart may break ;-but its latest sigh will
Be pour'd in breathing a prayer for thee.

POOR JACK.

Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see,
'Bout dangers, and fear, and the like;
A tight water boat and good sea-room give me,
And 'ten't to a little I'll strike.

Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack-smooth
should smite,

And shiver each splinter of wood,

Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouze ev'ry thing
tight,

And under reef'd foresail we'll scud.
Avast! nor don't think me a milk-sop so soft,

To be taken for trifles aback;

For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day
About souls, heav'n, mercy, and such,

And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay;
Why, 'twas just all as one as High Dutch:
But he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see,
Without orders that come down below,

And many fine things, that prov'd clearly to me,
That providence takes us in tow.

For, says he, Do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft
Take the topsails of sailors aback,

There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,

To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

4

I said to our Poll (for you see she would cry)
When last we weigh'd anchor for sea,
What argufies sniv❜ling and piping your eye;
Why, what a big fool you must be:

Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all,

Both for seamen and lubbers ashore,

And if to Old Davy I should go, friend Poll,

Why, you never will hear of me more.

What then? all's a hazard; come, don't be so soft,
Perhaps I may laughing come back;

For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack.

D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch
All as one as a piece of the ship,

And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch,
From the moment the anchor's a-trip.

As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends,
Nought's a trouble from duty that springs;

For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino my friend's,
And as for my life, 'tis the king's.

Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft
As with grief to be taken aback:

That same little cherub that sits up aloft,
Will look out a good birth for poor Jack.

MARIAN'S COMPLAINT.

SINCE truth has left the shepherd's tongue,
Adieu the cheerful pipe and song;
Adieu the dance at closing day,
And ah! the happy morn of May.

How oft he told me I was fair,
And wove the garland for my hair;

How oft for Marian cull'd the bow'r,
And fill'd my cap with ev'ry flower.

No more his gifts of guile I'll wear,
But from my brow the chaplet tear;
The crook he gave in pieces break,
And rend his ribbons from my neck.

How oft he vow'd a constant flame,
And carv'd on ev'ry oak my name!
Blush, Colin, that the wounded tree
Is all that will remember me.

THE BROWN JUG.

DEAR Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale,

(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale),
Was once Toby Filpot, a thirsty old soul,
As e'er crack'd a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl.
In boozing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease,
In his flow'r woven arbour, as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe, puffing sorrow away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had dissolv'd it again,
A potter found out in its covert so snug,
And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug.
Now sacred to friendship, to mirth, and mild ale,
So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the vale.