BRITAIN vs. AFGHANISTAN.

Written in 1843.

"TIS grand to grasp the glaive

Some sacred cause to shield;

'Tis grand to find a grave

In freedom's battle-field.

Not thus fight they who seek
Now, in ignoble strife,
'Mid Afghan's mountains bleak
The Afghan's country-life.

O Britain! when will be

Thy lust of conquest quenched? 'Tis infamy to see

Thy skirts so blood bedrenched.

Rude though the Afghan be,
He loves his native land,
And well may dread to see
Its rule in thy red hand.

Let Kyber's fateful fight

And Ackbar's blade of doom

Warn thee to shun the fight

Where freemen strike for home.

The brave respect the brave

Thou seek'st revenge: For shame! Go sheathe thy braggart glaive, Aspire to honest fame.

If Afghan thou wouldst lord,
Go blessing-not to slay,—
The Bible, not the Sword,
Paving for thee the way.

How beautiful upon

The mountains then would be Thy feet! This this alone

Were conquest worthy thee.

MARY MINE.

THEY tell thee that I'm a deceiver? A deceiver! Mary mine,

While this heart beats, never, never Can it be aught else than thine.

What although of other Maries

I may sometimes sing the charms, Not the less my heart's sole care is To live only in thine arms.

Moons may change in yonder heaven, Ocean still may ebb and flow;

But my love, so fondly given,

Change nor ebb shall ever know.

THE HIGHLAND EMIGRANT'S LAST FAREWELL.

ADIEU, my native land,―adieu

The banks of the fair Lochfyne,

Where the first breath of life I drew,
And would my last resign!

Swift sails the bark that wafteth me.
This night from thy loved strand :
O must it be my last of thee,
My dear, dear Fatherland!

Land of the Bens and greenwood glens,

Though forced with thee to part,

Nor time, nor space can e'er efface
Thine image from my heart.

Come weal, come woe-till life's last throe,
My Highland home shall seem

An Eden bright in Fancy's light,

A heaven in memory's dream!

Land of the maids of matchless grace,
The bards of matchless song,-—

Land of the bold heroic race

That never brooked a wrong!
Long in the front of nations free

May Scotland proudly stand:
Farewell to thee-farewell to thee,
My dear, dear Fatherland!

ON THE DEATH OF A BELOVED PARENT.

O THOU whose love was dear as life to me,

My first, best, fondest friend beneath the skies! Though hence removed by Heaven's all-wise decree, Yet seem'st thou still as present to mine eyes,The same fond look, the same endearing voiceThy face so fair, thy smile so sweet to see! Alas, that all too late I've learnt to prize

Thy peerless worth!—a worth that well may be Within my heart of hearts a treasured memory.

Methinks I see thee by the couch of pain,

Thy presence fraught with healing-keen complaint Changing to grateful smiles, or making fain Some orphan'd home with needful nourishment. How often o'er my bed of sickness bent

Thy form beloved-an angel seeming there,— Night after night in weary watching spent Counting as nothing, in thy tender care

That I should nothing lack a mother's love could spare!

A task more pleasant was the loving zeal

With which to me, in boyhood, day by day,
Thou would'st fresh fountains of delight unseal,
Making Instruction's path a pleasant way.
'Twas thine to show Vice smiles but to betray,
Thine to persuade me ever to pursue

The path of duty, nor from that c'er stray,

F