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Money maks us merry,

Money maks us braw; Money gets us sweethearts,

That's the best of a'!

I hae fat and slender,

I hae short and tall :
I hae rake and miser,

I despise them all.

Money they're a' seeking,

Money they'se get nane; Money sends them sneaking

After Madam Jane.

There's ane puir and bashfu',

I hae in my e'e,
He's get hand and siller,

Gin he fancies me..

Money maks us bonny,

Money maks us glad; Be she lame or lazy,

Money brings a lad.

CXLVI.

WHEN WINDS THE MOUNTAIN OAK ASSAIL.

When winds the mountain oak assail,

And lay its glories waste,
Content may slumber in the vale,

Unconscious of the blast.
Through scenes of tumult while we roam,
The heart, alas! is ne'er at home,

It hopes in time to roam no more:
The mariner, not vainly brave,
Combats the storm, and rides the wave,

To rest at last on shore.

Ye proud, ye selfish, ye severe,

How vain your mask of state!
The good alone have joys sincere,

The good alone are great ;
Great, when amid the vale of peace,
They bid the plaint of sorrow cease,

And hear the voice of artless praise ;
As when along the trophy'd plain,
Sublime they lead the victor train,

While shouting nations gaze.

CXLVII.

ON BLYTHSOME MEAD,

On blythsome mead at morn to stray,
Among the dew-clad flowerets gay,
Or basking in the noon-day beam,
On sedgy bank, by limpid stream,
My heart still fondly dwelt on thee,
For thou wert then

my

Rosalie.

At e'en, when wearing hame the sheep,
O'er woodland brake, and mountain steep,
To mark the sun's last setting ray,
On distant gowd-bespangled brae,
Still sweet were these, but nought to me,
Compar'd with lovely Rosalie.

Our sweet retreat, night's silent hour
Yon rose and ivy mantled bower,
And if the moon-beams shew'd the while,
Thy glistening eye, thy rosy smile,
Enraptur'd fancy dwelt on thee,
For thou wert then my Rosalie.

Thus fled our smiling days of youth ;
Thus fled the hours of love and truth ;
Now thou art cold as winter's snow,
Nor bliss can e'er my bosom know,
Yet fancy fondly dwells on thee,
Though thou'rt no more, my Rosalie.

CXLVIII.

I FOUND THE WARRIOR ON THE PLAIN.

I found the warrior on the plain,

His eye was fixed, his hand was chill,
Still bore his breast the life-blood's stain,

The blood was on his helmet still,--
He died, as hearts like his should die,

In the hot clasp of Victory!

Victory

The eye was fix'd, --but in its gaze

Look'd the high soul ;--the crimson'd brow
Was cold; but life's departing rays

Had lit it with a warrior's glow :
The soul that from that turf had flown

Would not hare sought a prouder thron.

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