INVERAE'S WOOING.

(Written to the Gaelic air of "A Mhorag, an dean thu tighinn. ")

THUS a Highland wooer

Pleaded with a Lowland lassie,

As he fondly drew her

'Neath his plaid, one gloaming gray :

"Annie, gin ye love me,

Do, I pray thee

Cease to Nay me;

Now or never I must ha'e thee

Off to bonnie Inverae,"

Answered she "Na, I canna;

Weel tho' I'd like to gae ;

Faither and mither winna

Let me gang to Inverae."

"Sweet along the glen, there,

Sounds the herd-boy's morning carol;

Sweeter still at e'en, there,

Lilts the lass her milking lay;

Nor less like to charm thee

Songs of thrushes

'Mong the bushes

Bending o'er each burn that rushes,

Floweret-fringed, through Inverae."

"Ne'er was such a welcome

As my bonnie bride shall get there;
Hundreds proudly shall come

To our bridal banquet gay:

Bards shall sound thy praises

Gladly granting,

'Mid their vaunting,

Ne'er was bride so all-enchanting :

Haste we, then, to Inverae.

Still, though 'twas, " Na, I canna ;—

Weel though I'd like to gae,

Long ere they parted, Annie

Said she'd gang to Inverae!

I LOVE THEE NOT, APRIL.

AIR-" Flow gently, sweet Afton."

I LOVE thee not, April !-no matter how fair
The blooms that rejoice in thy balm-breathing air :
They mind me of one who no longer can be

Thy gifts to Glenara glad-hailing with me.

A maiden whose cheek wore the dawning's warm blush, Whose voice was more sweet than the song of the

thrush,

Alas that the flowers she so late loved to see

Should so soon grace the grave that now parts her from

me!

From her, death divided, small wonder I find

Spring-blooms only bringing sad thoughts to my mind; They wither to blossom again.-Not so she

Whose smile no new springtime can bring back to me !

Then away with thee, April! Scarce camest thou when Our delight changed to wailing in Aray's sweet glen; There's a stain far too deep in thy record to be

E'er forgot or forgiven by lover like me.

POEMS, SONGS AND SONNETS,

CHIEFLY WRITTEN IN CANADA.

THE CHAUDIERE.

A SCENE ON THE RIVER OTTAWA.

WHERE the Ottawa pours its magnificent tide

Through forests primæval, dark-waving and wide, There's a scene which for grandeur has scarcely a peer,'Tis the wild roaring rush of the mighty Chaudiére.

On, onward it dashes- -an ocean of spray;

How madly it lashes each rock in its way!

Like the onset of hosts, when spear breaks against spear,
Is th' omnipotent sweep of the mighty Chaudiére.

See! see where it now from yon ledge wildly leaps,-
Less swift down some Alp the dread avalanche sweeps ;
That vortex below may well agonize where
Right into its throat goes the mighty Chaudiére !

Evermore, evermore, where sheer downward it springs,
Its mist-mantle it weaves-its loud anthem it sings;