Once more the cruel path I sought,
To woo again my cheerful thought,-
Or be for ever poisoned quite,
By drinking deep another sight-
And there-as to reward my pains,
In wandering lonely from the Mains,
That darling object blessed my view-
Those dear loved een sae bonnie blue!

II.

If love could speak through woman's eyes,
Like burning blush, or tell-tale sighs,
The deep, but stol'n glance I threw
At those twa een sae bonnie blue
Had pierced the hardest heart of pride,
And told the tale I wished to hide-
Ay wished to hide, yet longed to tell,
That Love might bind him in its spell,
And make our hearts nae longer two,
But focused like his een sae blue.
But ah! he passed, nor knew the heart
That fondly wished we'd never part!
Wi' cautious care I learned his name,
With mantling blush, and maiden shame,
Afraid to ask, in case they spied

The secret I sae wished to hide.
To Church I followed each Sunday,-
But oh the truth I'm loath to say,
The Minister was less in view

Than yon twa een sae bonnie blue!—
Yet, surely, since the Angels love,
My maiden fault's forgi'en above-
But ah! alas! I sighed in vain,
His love, nor heart, I ne'er could gain!
Too pure to ply the Wanton's art,
I secret pined, with wounded heart,
Nor did he ever guess the woe

That rankled in my breast of snow;
But as the wave sweeps o'er the sand,

Time spread the wound with healing hand,

And gave his never-failing balm,
Which brought at last my wonted calm.

But long indeed! ay! sooth to tell,
Those blue een bound me with a spell!

III.

But now, when many years have flown,
And he and I are older grown,

Fate brought us to a marriage throng,
Where blythe and merry went the song;
And in the many jokes that passed,
I mustered courage there at last,
And told him of my youthful flame,
With neither blush, nor thought of shame-
His path and mine lead different ways,
For chequered life hath many a phase;
And, strange indeed, but still 'tis true,
My true love now has eyes of blue-
And, stranger still, but so it chanced,
We both at once were affianced,
My first love to a youthful bride,
And I to my groom too am cried,
And while we live we'll baith be true
To our dear een sae bonnie blue !

IV.

Now all young Maids who pine for Love,
Have patience in the ways above,

And neither lose, nor break your heart,

Nor modesty, in wanton Art

Be true to Him who guides us all—

True to yourself and never fall;

The longest road must have a turn,
The strongest flame can't always burn;
And though you think for Love you'd die,
Be wise and black Despair will fly,-
With Love, have Hope and Charity,
And careful guard your purity-
That shield which never fails our sex,
Nor vilest libertine can dare to vex.
There is a spell in Virtue's eye,
Which makes the boldest villain fly!
And checks the foul, immoral rail,
And makes the lewdest scoundrel quail.

Then guard this gem with jealous care,
And seek your God,-your friend,—in prayer;
The slightest wish to go astray,
Will ope a sluice you cannot stay;
Just like the avalanche of snow,
It gathers way and rolls below,
Until no human power can check

The fall which leaves a woman's wreck.

To Virtue, then, be ever true,

And eyes you'll gain-grey, black, or blue,
To bear you company through life,

For modest Maid makes happy Wife!

Where Virtue and Good Temper doth control,

There rests on Peace-the wings of Woman's Soul!

Yes, I maintain that virtue and good temper in Woman are the true pinions of her soul.

HERE'S TO YOU AND ME, MAN.

"Here's to him that will not turn his back on friend or foe."

"

May the dame be found

True as the stock dove to her shallow nest,

And to the grove that holds it."

HERE'S to Scotland, and here's to you,
Yes! here's to you and me, man ;

And here's to her whose bonnie mou'
I pressed to mine sae true, man!

Here's to Worth, where'er 'tis found,
Damnation to the base man;
And gallows for the heartless hound
Who'd plot a maid's disgrace, man!

Here's to the Son who loves his sire,
And cheers a Mother's heart, man;
Here's to Love's most holy fire,

That burns till death doth part, man.

Here's to the Wife who hates deceit,
And stems an ebbing tide, man,-

And never runs with gossip feet,

But keeps her ain fireside, man.

Here's to the Truth, the Kirk and State,
May Despots never tamper, man—
Then lend your hand to keep them great,
And drink to dregs your bumper, man!

What though o' wealth you may be scant,
Contentment's wealth is best, man;
Have faith in God, you 'll never want,
But hae baith peace and rest, man.
Despise the twa-faced, tippling crew,
Wha lounge aboot for drink, man—
They'll drink frae me, and drink frae you,
Syne ca 's baith black as ink, man.

Then here's to man's most noble state,
His Honesty and Truth, man ;

'Tis these that make him truly great

Then drink, and drown your drouth, man!

"In nature there's no blemish but the mind;

None can be called deformed, but the unkind;

Virtue is beauty; but the beauteous evil

Are empty trunks o'er flourished by the devil."-Shakespeare.

ON A MISERLY FELLOW,

READING MY FIRST POEM, THE "MEMENTO," AND

"

RETURNING IT.

Alas, how deeply painful is all payment!

Take lives, take wives, take ought except men's purses.

As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,

Such is the shortest way to general curses.

They hate a murderer much less than a claimant

On that sweet ore which everybody nurses

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,

But keep your hand out of his breeches pocket."—Byron.

"Mercy and honesty from him, mistress! ye might as weel expect brandy from bean-stalks, or milk from a crag o' blue whunstane."-Richy Moniplies in the "Fortunes of Nigel," Sir W. Scott.

"He acquire any tincture of human letters!-yes, when howling foxes and yelling wolves become musicians."-Quentin Durward, Ibid.

A

ND that's my poem,-have you read it through?
Or shuffled owre the leaves like hungry sou?
You greedy!-mean !-consistent-selfish Jew!-

Ay, man!—indeed!—and you have spared the time
Awa' from scraping gold, to read my rhyme?
But, you "dinna think you'll buy a copy noo,"
Since you hae taen guid care to read it through ?-
Deil help you, sir! to grab your gowden trash,
And, when you fag, may He apply the lash,
Until its very weight shall press you doon,

And wizzened heart shall grow as hard's your croon !—
But dinna think, sir, you can ever throw

A miser's habit aff you at ae blow

No, faith-'twill cling to you in spite o' fate,

And gar you grub for dirt baith ear' and late !-
Until all mental pleasures shall be lost,

As water's lost in ice by winter's frost

But, God knows when you'll thaw-nane here can tell,
The likest place may be the fire o' Hell!

KEEP UP YOUR HEART.

"Turn melancholy forth to funerals."-Shakespeare.
"Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead,

Excessive grief the enemy to the living."-Ibid.

"I know nothing so useless, so utterly feeble and contemptible, as the groaning forth one's helpless lamentations into the ears of our friends."Dairsie Latimer in "Redgauntlet," Sir W. Scott.

"It is very great folly to be afflicted with grief, when thou art sensible that no good can be done by it."

KEEP up your heart, my bonnie young lad,

Keep yourself happy and cheer;

Naught can be gained by being aye sad,
Then away with the woeful tear.

Is 't Money or Love that you're sighing for?
Or the loss of a parent dear?

Keep Hope and Courage still before,
And away with the useless tear.

Life at the best is a weary load,

Be cheerful then while you're here-
Keep in the centre of Virtue's road,
But away with the doleful tear.