MY ROWAN TREE.

FAIR shelterer of my native Cot—
That Cot so very dear to me,—

O how I envy thee thy lot,

My long-lost Rowan Tree!

Thou standest on thy native soil,

Proud-looking o'er a primrosed lea;
The skies of Scotland o'er thee smile,
Thrice happy Rowan Tree!

Well do I mind that morning fair
When, a mere boy, I planted thee:
A Kingdom now were less my care
Than then my Rowan Tree.

How proudly did I fence thee round!
How fondly think the time might be
I'd sit with love and honour crown'd
Beneath my Rowan Tree!

My children's children thee would climb, Inviting grand-papa to see ;

I yet might weave some deathless rhyme
Beneath my Rowan Tree!

"Twas thus I dream'd: That happy day,
I'd die to think my fate would be
So soon to plod life's weary way
Far from my Rowan Tree.

Long years have passed since last I eyed
Thy growing grace and symmetry:
A stranger to me sits beside

My well-loved Rowan Tree;

Yet still in fancy I can mark
Thy lily-bloom and fragrancy,

And birds that sing from dawn to dark,
Perched on my Rowan Tree.

Like rubies red on Beauty's breast Thy clustering berries yet I see Half-hiding some spring warbler's nest Built in my Rowan Tree.

Fair as the maple green may tower,
I'd gladly give a century
Beside it for one happy hour
Beneath my Rowan Tree.

The forest many trees can boast
More fit perhaps for keel or knee,
But none for grace, in heat or frost,
Can match the Rowan Tree.

How beautiful above them all
Its snow-white summer drapery!

A cloud of crimson in the Fall

Seems Scotland's Rowan Tree!

Well knows the boy, at Beltane time,
When near it in a vocal key,
What whistles perfectly sublime
Supplies the Rowan Tree.

Well knows he too what ills that wretch

Might look for, who would carelessly
Home in his load of firewood fetch
Aught of the Rowan Tree.

In vain might midnight hags colleague
To witch poor Crumbie's milk, if she
Had only o'er her crib a twig

Cut from the Rowan Tree!

Alas! that in my dreams alone
I ever now can hope to see
My boyhood's home and thee, my own,
My matchless Rowan Tree!

ERIN MACHREE.*

(Written for, and read at the Kingston St. Patrick's Day celebration of 1868).

WHEN darkness barbaric plunged Europe in night, One spot still remained where truth's daystar shone bright;

"Twas a land whose mere name is like music to meThat fair Ocean-Eden, old Erin machree!

* Erin of my heart. The term "machree" is here used in deference to a popular though erroneous orthography. It is more properly spelt "mochri."

N

Land of minstrels the sweetest on earth to be found— Land for eloquent speech and rare wit most renowned ! Pat may spoil for a fight, now and then, just a wee, Still the kindest of hearts beat in Erin machree.

Talk of Venus just sprung from the ocean-foam fair!
Old Erin has thousands of charmers as rare

'Mong the white-bosom'd maids-all so modest, yet free, Who bloom thick as the flowers in old Erin machree!

Should you wish for bright scenes, there's a choice of them there;

If for legends unmatch'd, she has plenty to spare;— Would you like to make love to some smiling Banshee, You should just make your home in old Erin machree!

Would you find the true Lethe of every ill,

You should taste her poteen just fresh down from the hill;
Would you charm away grief or get dizzy with glee,
All you want is the music of Erin machree.

Bad luck to the bards in whose verse she appears

A Niobe-nation, for ever in tears:

Though caught in a "caoine "* she sometimes may be,
There's still heart and hope in old Erin machree.

O guard her, kind Heaven, and make her once more
The envied of nations-the Erin of yore!

That day so long promised, methinks I can see
Just dawning o'er Erin, fair Erin machree.

* A sorrowful wail-lamenting.

MY FIRST ST. ANDREW'S NIGHT IN CANADA.

(Addressed to a distant friend.)

NEVER yet in " houff" or hall, sir,
Was there such a Carnival, sir,

As we, "Kingston Scots," had all, sir,
At our late St. Andrew's.

Verily, we feasted rarely,
Merrily we preed the barley;
Good Glenlivet had no parley
From us on St. Andrew's.

The Piob-mhor, so justly vaunted,
Each and all of us enchanted:
"Mac" seemed by Macrimmon haunted,
Piping on St. Andrew's.

MacIntosh, with jibe and joke there,
Saints to laughter would provoke there;
Whitehead ably played the "gowk," sir,
For us on St. Andrew's.

Shaw was great in whoop and yell, sir,
Gunn in grinning did excel, sir;
Kinghorn's horse-laughs bore the bell there,
Keeping up St. Andrew's.

Judge MacKenzie, as he cast there

A proud glance at Scotland's past, sir,
All her foes, in fancy, thrashed, sir,
Bravely, on St. Andrew's.