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These court indeed, I maun confess,

I think they make you young, sir,
And ten times better can express

Affection than your tongue, sir,

CXXX .

TOMB OF MY FATHERS.

Subdu'd by misfortunes, and bow'd down with pain,

I sought on the bosom of peace to recline: I hied to the home of my fathers again,

But the home of my fathers no longer was mine.

The look that spoke gladness and welcome was gone;'

The blaze that shone bright in the hall was no more : A stranger was there, with a bosom of stone,

And cold was his eye as I enter'd his door.

'Twas his, deaf to pity, to tenderness dead,

The falling to crush, and the humble to spurn; But I staid not his scorn,-from his mansion I fled,

And my beating heart vow'd never more to return.

When home' shall receive me, one home yet I know,

O'er its gloomy recess see the pine branches wave, 'Tis the tomb of my fathers. The world is my foe,

And all my inheritance now is a grave.

'Tis the tomb of my fathers, the grey moisten’d walls,

Declining to earth, speak, emphatic, decay : The gate, off its hinge, and half-opening, calls

“ Approach, most unhappy, thy dwelling of clay."

Alas! thou sole dwelling of all I hold dear,

How little this meeting once augur'd my breast ! From a wanderer accept, oh my fathers, this tear,

Receive him, the last of your race, to your rest.

CXXXI.

AND CAN THY BOSOM BEAR THE THOUGHT.

AIR-Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes,

And can thy bosom bear the thought

To part frae love and me, laddie?
Are all those plighted vows forgot,

Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie?

Can'st thou forget the midnight hour,
When in yon love-inspiring bower,
You vow'd by every heavenly power,

You'd ne'er loe ane but me, laddie.
Wilt thou-wilt thou gang and leave me,
Win my heart, and then deceive me?
Oh! that heart will break, believe me,

Gin ye part wi' me, laddie.

Aft hae ye roos'd my rosy check,

Aft prais’d my sparkling e'e, laddie, Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,

But love, and live wi' me, laddie. But soon those cheeks will lose their red, Those eyes in endless sleep be hid, And 'neath the turf the heart be laid,

That beats for love, and thee, laddie. Wilt thou-wilt thou gang and leave me, Win my heart and then deceive me? Oh! that heart will break, believe me,

Gin ye part frae me, laddie.

You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,

Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,
But oh! the heart can never bear,

A love sae true as mine, laddie.
But when that heart is laid at rest,
That heart that loed ye last and best,
Oh, then the pangs that rend try breast

Will shiarper be than mine, laddie.

Broken vows will vex and grieve me,
Till a broken heart relieve me,
Yet its latest thought, believe me,

Will be love and thine, laddie.

CXXXII.

OH! THIS WEARY, WEARY WARL'.

(In the Cumberland dialect.)

Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits;
And spins, and sings, and smuiks by fits,
And cries, as she had lost her wits-

“ Oh! this weary, weary warl !".

* Such will be the exclamation of every one who has lived to that period of life, when the powers of sensation are blunted, when worldly objects no longer attach the heart, and when those amusements which gave rapture to youth, can no longer please. Weighed down with infirmities and sorrow, and standing on the stage of life as a friendless, forlorn, insulated individu. al, the burden of an old man's song must ever be, “Oh! this weary, weary warl!"

Yence Marget was as lish a lass
As e'er in summer trode the grass :
But fearfu' changes come to pass,

In this weary, weary warl !

fowk stare;

Then at a murry-neet or fair,
Her beauty made the

young
Now wrinkl'd is that feace wi' care-

Oh! this weary, weary warl !

Yence Marget she had dowters twee,
And bonnier lassies cudna be ;
Now nowther kith nor kin has shem

Oh! this weary, weary warl !

The eldest wi' a soldier gay
Ran frae her heame ae luckless day,
And e'en lies buried far away-

Oh! this weary, weary warl !

The youngest she did nought but whine,
And for the lads wad fret and pine,
Till hurried off by a decline

Frae this weary, weary warl!

Auld Andrew toild reet sair for bread; Ae neet they fan him cauld, cauld dead, Nae wonder that turn’d Marget's head

Oh! this weary, weary warl !

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