Fast follows on the cloud of night's dark noon, And bright the fires of heaven begin to blaze; While o'er the misty mountain's head the moon Pours, in a streaming flood, her silver rays. White on the pool her radiance, flickering, plays Where shadows, faintly glimmering, shadows

mar;

And clear the cottage window, to the gaze
Of solitary wanderer, gleaming far

Up yonder green hill side, appears a glittering

star.

Our poor man here, in converse with the sky, Lone o'er the uplands holds his wandering way; His bosom swells, he heaves the frequent sigh, And tears start sudden ere he well knows why. "Tis nature stirs him-verging to decay, Through all her works, she pours the weary

groan;

Even now by faith he hails th' eventful day-He hears the trump of God-the great white throne

Is rais'd-creation melts-lo, heaven and earth are gone!

"And thou, my soul!" he cries; "shalt thou survive,

When quench'd in years these living fires shall fade?

Yes, in immortal vigour thou shalt live,
And soar and sing when every star is fled.
For so hath God-God, thy Redeemer, said:
A higher song than seraph's shall be thine;
Yea, though in mould'ring clay this flesh be
laid,

These very lips, with energy divine, Heaven's high-resounding harp in holy hy.nns shall join

"To God for ever let thy song ascend,

Though stormy howlings sweep thy rugged path;

Though weeping woe thy straiten'd steps attend, And sin thy green leaves soil with burning breath;

There yet remains a rest reveal'd to faith, A rest from sin and all its dire distress; A Sabbath sweet, beyond the realm of death, Bright with the beams of God's all-gracious face, The gift of sovereign love, the rich reward of grace."

Sooth'd with this sweet idea, he retires, His brow serene with calm contentment's smile, To rest, till ruddy morning's glowing fires Again awake him to his weekly toil. Fountain of Good! grant me to keep, the while My span extends, thy Sabbaths thus alway; My reason clear, my spirit free from guile: And of thy light still shed a purer ray, Till glory's sun arise in bright refulgent day!

THE SICK CHILD.

I pass'd the cot but yesterday,
'Twas neat and clean, its inmates gay,
All pleas'd and pleasing, void of guile,
Pursuing sport or healthful toil.

To-day the skies are far more bright,
The woods pour forth more wild delight,
The air seems all one living hum,
And every leaflet breathes perfume.

Then why is silence in the cot,
Its wonted industry forgot,
The fire untrimmed, the floor unred,
The chairs with clothes and dishes spread,
While, all in woeful dishabille,
Across the floor the children steal?
Alas! these smothered groans! these sighs!
Sick, sick the little darling lies;
The mother, while its moan ascends,
Pale, o'er the cradle, weeping bends;
And, all absorbed in speechless woe,
The father round it paces slow.
Behind them close, with clasped hands,
The kindly village matron stands,
Bethinking what she shall direct;
For all night long, without effect,
Her patient care has been applied,
And all her various simples tried,
And glad were she could that be found
Would bring the baby safely round.

Meanwhile, the little innocent,
To deeper moans gives ampler vent,
Lifts up its meek but burden'd eye,
As if to say, "Let me but die,
For me your cares, your toils give o'er,
To die in peace, I ask no more."

But who is there with aspect kind,
Where faith, and hope, and love are joined,
And pity sweet? The man of God,
Who soothes, exhorts, in mildest mood,
And to the pressure of the case
Applies the promises of grace-
Then lifts his pleading voice and eye
To Him enthron'd above the sky,
Who, compass'd once with pains and fears,
Utter'd strong cries, wept bitter tears-
Whence still the sympathetic glow
He feels for all his people's woe-
For health restored, and length of days,
To the sweet babe he humbly prays;
But 'specially that he may prove
An heir of faith, a child of love;
That, when withdrawn from mortal eyes,

Frae a' the een in yon town

I see the tears o' sorrow fa', An' weel they may in yon town, Nae canty sang they hear ava.

Their e'ening sky begins to lour,

The murky clouds thegither draw; 'Twas but a blink afore a shower,

Ere Robbie gaed and left them a'.

The landwart hizzy winna speak;

Ye'll see her sitting like a craw Amang the reek, while rattons squeakHer dawtit bard is now awa'.

But could I lay my hand upon

His whistle, keenly wad I blaw, An' screw about the auld drone, An' lilt a lightsome spring or twa.

If it were sweetest aye whan wat,
Then wad I ripe my pouch an' draw,
An' steep it weel amang the maut,

As lang's I'd saxpence at my ca'.

For warld's gear I dinna care,

My stock o' that is unco sma'. Come, friend, we'll pree the barley-bree To his braid fame that's now awa'.

FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin',
Fare-thee-weel before I gang;
Bonny Doon, where, early roamin',
First I weaved the rustic sang.

Bowers, adieu! where, love decoying,

First enthrall'd this heart o' mine; There the saftest sweets enjoying, Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine. Friends sae near my bosom ever,

Ye hae render'd moments dear; But, alas! when forced to sever,

Then the stroke, O how severe! Friends, that parting tear reserve it, Though 'tis doubly dear to me; Could I think I did deserve it,

How much happier would I be. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew;

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu!

GLENDOCHART VALE.

As I came through Glendochart vale, Whar mists o'ertap the mountains gray, A wee bit lassie met my view,

As cantily she held her way; But O sic love each feature bore,

She made my saul wi' rapture glow! An' aye she spake sae kind and sweet, I couldna keep my heart in tow. O speak na o' your courtly queans! My wee bit lassie fools them a'; The little cuttie's done me skaith,

She's stown my thoughtless heart awa'. Her smile was like the gray-e'ed morn, Whan spreading on the mountain green; Her voice saft as the mavis' sang,

An' sweet the twinkle o' her een; Aboon her brow, sae bonnie brent, Her raven locks wav'd o'er her ee; An' ilka slee bewitching glance Conveyed a dart o' love to me.

O speak na o' your courtly queans, &c. The lasses fair in Scotia's isle, Their beauties a' what tongue can tell? But o'er the fairest o' them a', My wee bit lassie bears the bell. O had I never mark'd her smile, Nor seen the twinkle o' her ee! It might na been my lot the day A waefu' lade o' care to dree.

O speak na o' your courtly queans, &c.

I WINNA GANG BACK TO MY MAMMY
AGAIN.

I winna gang back to my mammy again,
I'll never gae back to my mammy again;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I've held by her apron, &c.

Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo,
Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue;
"O come awa', lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;"
An' I flew, wi' my laddie, o'er meadow an' glen.
"O come awa', lassie," &c.

He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo,
An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my

mou';

While I fell on his bosom, heart-flichter'd an' fain, An' sigh'd out, "O, Johnnie, I'll aye be your ain!"

While I fell on his bosom, &c.

Some lasses will talk to the lads wi' their e'e,
Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;
Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane,
Sae I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.

For mony lang year sin' I play'd on the lea,
My mammy was kind as a mither could be;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I've held by her apron, &c.

THE CRADLE SONG.
Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing,
O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e!
Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing,
For thou art doubly dear to me.
Thy daddie now is far awa',

A sailor laddie, o'er the sea;
But hope aye hechts his safe return
To you, my bonny lamb, an' me.
Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing,

O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e!
Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing,

For thou art doubly dear to me.
Thy face is simple, sweet, an' mild,
Like ony simmer e'ening fa';
Thy sparkling e'e is bonnie black;

Thy neck is like the mountain snaw.

Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing,

O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e! Baloo, baloo, my wee, wee thing,

For thou art doubly dear to me. O, but thy daddie's absence, lang,

Might break my dowie heart in twa,

Wert thou na left, a dautit pledge, To steal the eerie hours awa'!

THE WAITS.

Wha's this, wi' voice o' music sweet,
Sae early wakes the weary wight?
O weel I ken them by their sough,
The wandering minstrels o' the night.
O weel I ken their bonnie lilts,

Their sweetest notes o' melody,
Fu' aft they've thrill'd out through my saul,
And gart the tear fill ilka e'e.

O, sweetest minstrels! weet your pipe
A tender, soothin' note to blaw;
Syne souf the "Broom o' Cowdenknowes,"
Or "Rosslyn Castle's" ruin'd wa',
They bring to mind the happy days

Fu' aft I've spent wi' Jenny dear:-
Ah! now ye touch the very note

That gars me sigh, and drap a tear. Your fremit lilts I downa bide,

They never yield a charm for me; Unlike our ain, by nature made,

Unlike the saft delight they gi'e; For weel I ween they warm the breast,

Though sair oppress'd wi' poortith cauld; An' sae an auld man's heart they cheer, He tines the thought that he is auld.

O, sweetest minstrels! halt awee,
Anither lilt afore ye gang;
An' syne I'll close my waukrife e'e,
Enraptured wi' your bonnie sang.
They're gane! the moon begins to dawn;
They're weary, paidlin' through the weet;
They're gane! but on my ravished ear

The dying sounds yet thrill fu' sweet.