Alas! that their descendants now, upon their native soil, Can hardly find, for deer and sheep, a spot whereon to toil!

Our good old race of Chiefs give place to mercenary knaves

Who, for a bushel, less or more, would plough their father's graves!

"The age of chivalry is past," yet shall its fame survive Forever brightened by their deeds-the Clans of 'Forty

five.

A "FABLED" OSSIAN.

["He (Burns) was pre-eminently the poet of the Scottish people : not that Scotland cannot boast of other bards. They shine as lights-they stud her history as stars, all along from the time of the fabled Ossian down to Adam Smith." From a speech by an Englishman present at the Kingston celebration of the Centenary of Burns.]

A "FABLED" Ossian, did'st thou say?
That warrior-bard of deathless lay
Fabled, indeed! I tell thee, Nay!

A bard whose praise all ages ring,
Forsooth, a mere imagining!
How judgest thou of such a thing?

Go learn a tongue to thee unknown-
Be guided by the truth alone—
Then sit the critic's seat upon !

Do more, read Scotia's bards forthwith; I think it will take all thy pith

Among them to find Adam Smith!

Adam a poet! hear it, Cocker!

Was ever such a funny joker !

You'd be a fortune to "The Poker."

But as a nod's as good's a wink,
I say no more about that “kink
My duty is to make thee think.

Think, then, through what long ages came, Unwritten, Homer's song and fame :

Why could not Ossian's come the same?

What marvel that a strain that winds

Its

way into all hearts and minds A never-ending audience finds!

Be not, then, sceptical, but wise;
Scan Ossian with no jaundiced eyes,
And learn to blush at Saxon lies.

Yes, read the songs of Selma through; Though old, they may be fresh to you— A study manifestly new!

THE LAKE OF THE THOUSAND ISLES.

THOUGH Missouri's tide may majestic glide,
There's a curse on the soil it laves;
The Ohio, too, may be fair, but who
Would sojourn in a land of slaves?

Be my prouder lot a Canadian cot

And the bread of a freeman's toils;

*

Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles !

I would seek no wealth, at the cost of health,
'Mid the city's din and strife;

More I love the grace of fair nature's face,
And the calm of a woodland life;

I would shun the road by ambition trod

And the lore which the heart defiles;—

Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles !

O, away, away! I would gladly stray
Where the freedom I love is found;

Where the pine and oak by the woodman's stroke
Are disturbed in their ancient bound;

Where the gladsome swain reaps the golden grain,
And the trout from the stream beguiles;

Then hurrah for the land of the forests grand,
And the Lake of the Thousand Isles !

*The above verses were written some years prior to the abolition of Slavery in the U. S. of America.

A SCOTTISH SYREN.

(The following lines were addressed to Miss Ellen Kennedy, at the termination of a vocal tour through Canada by the celebrated "Kennedy family.")

As might through clouds dark frowning, driven
Across the azure vault of heaven,

Smile on the lone belated wight
Sudden, some star of beauty bright
That with its gloom-dispelling ray
Quick-chases all his fears away,
Till, lo! as sudden from his sight
"Tis gone, and all again is night!
So thus upon my pathway drear—
A stranger long to Scotland dear-
Her music sweet, her wealth of song-
The tartan sheen-the Doric tongue-
Thou camest, Natures own bright child !
To cheer me with thy "wood-notes wild."
Such music! O thou Syren sweet!
I could have kissed thy very feet,
What time the tuneful keys along
Thy fairy fingers moved, and flung
Such wealth of melody around

As made yon hall seem hallowed ground,
And thou-less of Earth's daughters fair
Than some bright spirit of the air!

Ye've marked some sky-lark, singing sweet
High up above earth's dust and din,
Stop sudden, as if heaven's gate

Had ope'd and let her in.

'Twas thus it seemed, each time withdrew My bird of beauty from my view,Withdrawing only to enhance

The joys that each return attend,
Keeping my heart's tumultous dance
Increasing to the end.

O, "nicht" of rapture so complete!
Alas, the morn my song-bird sweet
Flew hence afar! while here am I

In gloom still deeper than before,
Much fearing that so great a joy
May mine be nevermore !

Thou'rt gone-yet still in thought I trace
Thy faultless form, thy winsome face
Beaming with intellect and grace,—
Thy sunny smile, thy forehead fair,
The gleaming of thy auburn hair,
And all the other graces rare,

Which with me, spite of time and tide,
"A joy forever" shall abide!
Thou'rt gone, yet evermore to me
Thy name will wake the memory
Of dear old Scotia's hills and haughs,—
Her woody dells, and sylvan shaws,—