See! the whyte moone sheenes onne hie; Whyterre ys mie true loves shroude; Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude; Gon to hys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Heere, uponne mie true loves grave, Mie love ys dedde, Gonne to hys deathe-bedde, Alle under the wyllowe tree. Wythe mie hondes I'lle dente ‡ the brieres Rounde his hallie corse to gre, Ouphante § fairie, lyghte youre fyres, Heere mie boddie stylle schalle bee. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to hys deathe-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne, Lyfe and all yttes goode I scorne, Daunce bie nete |, or feaste by daie. Mie love ys dedde, Gon to bys death-bedde, Al under the wyllowe tree. Waterre wytches, crownede wythe reytes *, I die; I comme; mie true love waytes CLI. SPIRITS OF LOVE, Spirits of love, who wander on O let the cheek of the maid I love Be, at morn and even', your rosy bed, And sweetly smile, as the spirits above, Spirits by whom the heart is led. *Reyles, waterflag. + Leathalle, deadly. Spirits of love, whose radiant sphere Be, at morn and even', your resting place,. Spirits of love, whose smiles divine, And witcherie, fond hearts ensnare, Hearts pure as the twin-rose buds, that twine, Be at morn and even' by smiles carest, CLII. A DREAM OF LOVE". Oh! holy be the sod Which her light foot trod, * This poetical piece, we can with confidence state, is the composition of a young gentleman, well known in this place, and who has already sent That night in the alley so green, May the little birds sing, And the gay woods ring With joy, where true lovers have been There was no ray of light On that ever-blissful night, Save the light of her own lovely eye; But the rich dulcet tone Of her voice in the thicket hard by. Her sweet voice still seems Or the wail of the languishing dove. And still by the thorn, All blushing as morn, Or the rose gemmed with early dew, She seems with a smile To linger awhile But the bright vision melts from my view. forth into the world many pieces of real merit. We would be proud were we allowed to mention his name. Probably, towards the close of this publication, we will have that pleasure. Many of his pieces will be found in "The Visitor," 2 vols. 18mo. published in Greenock, by Mr. Turner, 1818. Pitchy darkness succeeds, And in black mournful weeds Sad phantoms of fear glide along; While my wild throbbing heart Asks if truth to these dreams may belong. CLIII. ODE TO BURNS *. Recited by the President of the Burn's Anniversary Society, Paisley', 29th January, 1810. Again the happy day returns, A day to Scotsmen ever dear, It blest us with a BURNS. This is the last ode that was written by Robert Tannahill, for the Paisley Burns' Club, who held their sixth anniversary meeting, to celebrate the birth of their favourite bard, in January 1810. It was recited on that ccasion, by the president, and was received by the company with every |