Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,-What are they?—The haunt of the tyrant and slave!

The slave's spicy forests, and gold bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ;

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.

THE POSIE.

O, Luve will venture in, where it daurna weel be seen;
O, Luve will venture in, where Wisdom ance has been;
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green,
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear;

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer ;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,
For it's like a balmy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou;
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,

And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air;

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu', when the e'ening star is near,
And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear:
The violet 's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear;
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve,
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above,
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve;
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

THOU lingering star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,

Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast'

That sacred hour can I forget?
Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green;

The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene.

The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on ev'ry spray,
Till too, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaim'd the speed of winged day.

Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression deeper makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.

My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest?

Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

SIR WALTER SCOTT,

Born 1771, died 1832.

[From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."]

THE sun had brightened Cheviot gray,
The sun had brightened the Carter's side;

And soon beneath the rising day

Smiled Branksome towers and Teviot's tide.

The wild birds told their warbling tale,
And wakened every flower that blows;
And peeped forth the violet pale,

And spread her breast the mountain rose.
And lovelier than the rose so red,

Yet paler than the violet pale,

She early left her sleepless bed,

The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

Why does fair Margaret so early awake,

And don her kirtle so hastilie ;

And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,
Why tremble her slender fingers to tie?
Why does she stop, and look often around,
As she glides down the secret stair?

And why does she pat the shaggy blood-hound,
As he rouses him up from his lair?

And, though she passes the postern alone,

Why is not the watchman's bugle blown?

The ladye steps in doubt and dread,

Lest her watchful mother hear her tread;

The ladye caresses the rough blood-hound,

Lest his voice should waken the castle round;

The watchman's bugle is not blown,

For he was her foster-father's son ;

And she glides through the greenwood at dawn of light,

To meet Baron Henry, her own true knight.

The Knight and Ladye fair are met,

And under the hawthorn's boughs are set.
A fairer pair were never seen

To meet beneath the hawthorn green.
He was stately, and young, and tall,
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall;
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid,

Lent to her cheek a livelier red;

When the half sigh her swelling breast

Against the silken riband prest;

When her blue eyes their secret told,

Though shaded by her locks of gold

Where would you find the peerless fair,
With Margaret of Branksome might compare!

And now,

fair dames, methinks I see

You listen to my minstrelsy;

Your waving locks ye backward throw,

And sidelong bend your necks of snow :

Ye ween to hear a melting tale,

Of two true lovers in a dale;