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An O gin love but leads the way,

What cares can e'er befa'?
The sun o'pleasure shines a' day

When love's no far awa.
Then, while our youth is i' the prime,

Let's catch the fleetin' hour,
An offer vows at beauty's shrine,

In token o’ her pow'r.
An' whan auld age upon our pow

Begins to fling his snaw,
We'll welcome him wi' friendly low,

If love's no far awa.



RISING o'er the heaving billow,

Evening gilds the ocean's swell, While with thee, on grassy pillow,

Solitude ! I love to dwell. Lonely to the sea breeze blowing,

Oft I chaunt my love-lorn strain, To the streamlet sweetly flowing

Murmur oft a lover's pain.


* Although these two highly beautiful songs, by a Mr. James

gh, were received at an arly period of this work, by some unaccountable accident they have hitherto slipt aside. We would have been extremely sorry to have been deficient in our duty to the public and the author, in not giving them a place, as we judge them inferior to few pieces in this or any other collection. They contain the most flattering proofs of a highly endowed poetical genius, which we would be happy to See assiduously cultivated, and encouraged.

'Twas for her, the maid of Islay,

Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
'Twas for her the cheering smile ay

Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Not the tempest raving round me,

Lightning's flash, or thunder's roll,
Not the ocean's rage could wound me,

While her image fill'd my soul.
Farewell days of purest pleasure,

Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Farewell hours of bliss the measure,

Bliss that never can return.
Cheerless 'o'er the wild heath wand'ring,

Cheerless o'er the wave worn shore,
On the past with sadness pond'ring,

Hope's fair visions charm no more,

SWEET MAID, ON THY CHEEK. Sweet maid, on thy cheek there's a red rosy blush,

From thine eye beams the peace of the dove, I own'd their keen pow'r ’neath yon sweet birken bush,

When I sigh'd out the ag'nies of love. O enter this sweet sylvan shade,

Where no cares shall intrude on our bliss, . Where blushing, yet yielding, dear maid,

Let me seal each fond vow with a kiss.
A sweet nuptial morn soon shall smile on our loves,

And add to our joys new delight;
The birds in blyth concert shall sing in the grove,

A sweet prelude to the joys of the night.
Then sweet raptures our hours shall employ,

While I lean on thy fond beating heart; For sweetest, and dearest's the joy

That the conjugal life can impart.


Sweet is the ship, that, under sail,
Spreads her white bosom to the gale;

Sweet, O sweet's the flowing cann;
Sweet to poise the lab'ring oar,
That tugs us to our native shore,

When the boatswain pipes the barge to man.
Sweet sailing with a fav’ring breeze,
But O! much sweeter than all these,

Is Jack's delight, his lovely Nan. The needle, faithful to the north, To show of constancy the worth,

A curious lesson teaches man;
The needle, time may rust; a squall
Capsize the binnacle and all,

Let seamanship do all it can:
My love in worth shall higher rise,
Nor time shall rust, nor squalls capsize,

My faith and truth to lovely Nan.
When in the bilboes I was penn'd,
For serving of a worthless friend,

And ev'ry creature from me ran:
No ship performing quarantine
Was ever so deserted seen,

None hail'd me, woman, child, or man:
But though false friendship’s sails were furld,
Tho' cut adrift by all the world,

I had all the world in lovely Nan.
I love my duty, love my friend,
Love truth and merit to defend,

To mourn their loss who hazard ran:
I love to take an honest part,
Love beauty and a spotless heart,

By manners love to show the man;

To sail thro' life by honour's breeze:
'Twas all along of loving these,

First made me doat on lovely Nan.

No eye


TUNE" Banks of the Devon."
Wild howls the wind o'er the loud dashing ocean,

Fierce beat the dark billows on Coila's smooth shore; While friendless I wander amid the commotion,

And muse on the spot I may never tread more. Ah no, my sad breast, never more must thou wander

Those scenes, to thy mem’ry tho' ever so dear, Never more wi' thy lassie, by Clyde's smooth meanier,

o'er thy fate shall drop pity's soft tear. More dread, and more ruthless the surge o'misfortune,

Beat 'gainst this sad breast in my youth's early dawn; The keen blasts o' sorrow the tender stem tore soon,

An' crush'd low in dust ere the floweret was blawn. This woe-laden bosom is now weakly beating,

And trembling those limbs as I slow pace the shore; At each quiv'ring throb I feel life quick retreating,

And Fate, hov’ring nigh, says the struggle is o'er. Hark, the wind stills, and lo where the high foaming

billow, Late scatter'd his locks ’mong the robes o' the sky, Serene play the sun rays o' bright beaming yellow,

And nature sweet smileth as order draws nigh. Ev'n so, thou lov'd maiden, when life's storms are over,

A calm such as this we'll enjoy on yon shore, But more sweet, and a happier clime we'll discover,

Where Fate, all relentless, can part us no more.

* Written by a young Gentleman while standing by the sea whore at Saltcoats.

HALLOW FAIR. TUNE—“ Fy let us a' to the bridal." THERE's fouth o’ braw Jockies and Jennies

Comes weel buskit into the fair, Wi' ribbons on their cockernonies,

And fouth o' fine flour in their hair. O Maggie she was sae weel busked,

That Willie was tied to his bride; The poney was ne'er better whisked

Wi' a cudgel that hang frae his side.

But Maggie was wond'rous jealous,

To see Willie busked sae braw; And Sawney he sat in the ale-house,

And hard at the liquor did ca'. There was Geordie that weel lo’ed his lassie,

He took the pint stoup in his arms, And huggd it, and said, Troth they're saucy

That lo’es na a gude father's bairn. There was Wattie, the muirland laddie,

Was mounted upon a grey cowte, Wi' sword by his side, like a caddie,

To drive in the sheep and the nowte. His doublet sae weel it did fit him,

It scarcely came down to mid-thigh, Wi' hair pouther'd, hat, and a feather,

And housing at courpon and tee. But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie,

And aff scour'd the cowte like the win'; Poor Wattie he fell on the causey,

And birs'd a' the banes in his skin.
His pistols fell out o' the hulsters,

And were a' bedaubed wi' dirt:
The folk they came round him in clusters,

Some leugh, and cry'd, Lad, was ye hurt?

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