One marks so say old senachies-
The spot where Ardan feil;

The other, where his daughter lies
With him she loved so well.
The herd-boy oft, in passing by,
Adds to each cairn a stone;
The pilgrim, with a pitying sigh,
Thinks of the early gone,

And brands with execration brief
Thy memory, Dovan's demon-chief!

GLEN-URQUHART, INVERNESS-SHIRE.

HAIL, thou Arcadia of the North!
Glen-Urquhart lovely, well I trow
Yon sun above thee ne'er looked forth
On any landscape fair as thou.

When Nature's seeming negligence

Left rough Stratherrick what we see,

Meseems as if in recompense

She made a paradise of thee!

This path, so prodigal of flowers,

Yon dark-blue lakelet zephyr-curled,

Those murmuring streams and greenwood bowers

Seem all as of some brighter world.

'Mid scenes like this, methinks, was given
To minstrels first to strike the lyre:
'Mid such, methinks, the Sons of Heaven
Learned Earth's fair daughters to admire.
'Tis well such wooers are no more
Permitted thus on earth to rove,
Else would they haste to yonder bower,
All rivals for fair Ellen's love !*

JESSIE OF CARLUNNAN.

I own that in the Lowlands fair
Blooms many a winsome marrow;
But for a charmer past compare,
Give me Carlunnan's Jessie dear:

Love's queen,

when she would gods ensnare,

Might well her graces borrow!

Her mouth and breath find emblems fit
In June-time's opening roses;
Her eyes are of the hue deep-set
In spring-tide's dew-gem'd violet ;
The Greek's ideal nymph complete

Her form all-perfect show us.

*The "Fair Ellen" here alluded to was a sister to Patrick Grant, Esq., once proprietor of the estate of Redcastle, and who, at the time these verses were penned, made his home in Glen-Urquhart, on the banks of the beautiful Loch-Meikley.

No wonder that such love for her

Within

my heart is springing;

But that I fear such freedom might
Find little favour in her sight,
How glad I'd make her beauty bright
The theme of all my singing!

ANOTHER DAGON DOWN.

(Lines occasioned by the abolition of slavery in the British West India Colonies.)

HURRAH! thrice hurrah for the news just received!
A victory rare in Truth's cause is achieved;—
One link more is broken in slavery's chain;-
Heav'n grant quick destruction to those that remain !

All honoured be they through whose labours beloved
Britain finds a foul stain from her forehead removed:
Shame on her past record !—'tis high time indeed
Man's possession in man should be dropt from her creed.

No more in her Isles of the West far away
Shall the slaver accursed find a mart for his

prey :

There's a price on his head;—he must henceforth steer shy Of a coast where, if caught, like a dog he must die.

Of profits unhallowed no more left to boast;

Hark the howl of the hell-hounds whose harvest is lost! By hell only pitied, long let them howl on;

Their traffic was worthy of demons alone.

D

O, for the quick advent of that happy time
Foreseen by the prophet of Patmos sublime—
That time when, as brothers in loving accord,
Earth's tribes all shall joy in the smile of our Lord!

THE FINDHORN.

(Dedicated to the memory of the late Lady Gordon Cumming, of Altyre, Morayshire, for whose album these lines were originally penned.)

FINDHORN the Beautiful!
Fain would I sing thee;
Praise is the dutiful

Homage I bring thee.

Child of the Mist and Snow,

Nursed 'mong the mountains,

Well loves the red deer to

Drink at thy fountains.

Glassing the skies above,
Yonder thou glidest;
Now in some piny grove,
Sudden, thou hidest.

Here, with a rushing might,

Rocks thou art rounding;

There, like a flash of light,
Over them bounding!

Calm in the distance, now
Rest thou seem'st craving,
Darnaway's forest bough
Over thee waving.

What though a-near thee
No orange grove springeth?
What though to cheer thee
No nightingale singeth?

More love I to mark

What is thine in full feather,

The song of the lark

O'er the bloom of the heather!

O witching Relugas!

O Altyre enchanting!

The Findhorn, in you, has

Good cause for loud vaunting.

What stream e'er was given
A neighbourhood fairer ?
What maidens 'neath heaven
More lovely than there are?

But hark -'twas the whirr

Of the night-hawk, bold rover!

The bat is astir,

The lark's vespers are over.