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When hinnied hopes around our hearts Like simmer blossoms, sprang!

Oh, mind ye, luve, how aft we left
The deavin' dinsome toun,
To wander by the green burnside,

And hear its water croon;

The simmer leaves hung owre our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,

And we, with Nature's heart in tune,

Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn,

For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' vera gladness grat.

Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison,

Tears trinkled down your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak!

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled-unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

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MANY a year is in its gra Since I cross'd this restle And the evening, fair as Shines on ruin, rock, and

Then in this same boat b Sat two comrades old and One with all a father's tru One with all the fire of y

One on earth in silence w And his grave in silences But the younger brighter Pass'd in battle and in sto

So, whene'er I turn my ey Back upon the days gone Saddening thoughts of fri Friends that closed their

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As closely twined wi' earliest thochts

As ye hae been to me?

Oh! tell me gin their music fills
Thine ear as it does mine;

Oh, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne!

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot.

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper as it rins

The luve o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young,

I've never seen your face, nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,
And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dream'd

O' bygane days and me!

THE LOVER'S LEAP.

A ROMANTIC SPOT IN THE DARGLE, COUNTY
WICKLOW.

JOSEPH AUGUSTINE WADE.

OH! have you not heard of that dark woody glen,
Where the oak-leaves are richest and rarest-
Where Connal, the chief and foremost of men,
Loved Eily, of maidens the fairest?

She plighted her faith, but as quickly withdrew,
At a story that slander'd her lover :-

She left him in wrath, but how little she knew
That her peace at their parting was over!

He met her in vale, and he met her in grove,—
At midnight he roam'd by her dwelling;
But he said not a word of the truth of his love,
For his cheek the sad story was telling '
He found her one eve by the rock in the glen,

Where she once vow'd to love him for ever,-

He gazed, till she murmur'd "Dear Connal," and then He leap'd from the rock to the river!

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