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Horrid and long were the struggles of deatit,
Black was the night when they yielded their breath,
But not on the ocean, all buoyant and bloated,

For they were borne to coral caves,
Distant far beneath the waves,
And there on beds of pearl they sleep,
And far o'er their heads the tempests sweep,

That ne'er shall wake them more,
That ne'er shall wake them more.



'Tis swect, when in the glowing west

The sun's bright wheels their course are leaving,
Upon the azure ocean's breast,

To watch the dark wave slowly heaving.

* This heautiful Canzonette is the composition of the late John Bowles Sun, Esq.

And oh! at glimpse of early morn,

When early monks their beads are telling, *Tis sweet to hear the hunter's horn,

From glen to mountain wildly swelling:

And it is sweet, at mid-day houří

Beneath the forest oak reclining, To hear the driving tempests pour,

Each sense to fairy dreams resigning.

'Tis sweet, where nodding rocks around

The night-shade dark is wildly wreathing, To listen to some solemn sound,

From harp or lyre divinely breathing.

And sweeter yet the genuine glow

Of youthful friendship’s high devotion, Responsive to the voice of woe,

When heaves the heart with strong emotion.

And youth is sweet with many a joy,

That frolic by in artless measure; And



sweet, with less alloy, In tranquil thought and silent pleasure.

For He who gave the life we share,

With every charm His gift adorning, Bade Eve her pearly dew-drops wear,

And dress'd in smiles the blush of morning.

K k



Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,

The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw
How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover

Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw: The wild flow'rs o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,

The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree; But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,

And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery,

Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,

And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw; The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie,

They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee, And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie,

'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Ion cauld sleety cloud skiffs along the bleak mountain,

And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,

That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.

Tis no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin',

'Tis no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e, For, O gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan,

The dark days o' winter were summer to me!



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Emblem of England's ancient faith,

Pull proudly may thy branches wave
Where loyalty lies low in death,

And valour fills a nameless grave. .

And thou, brave tenant of the tomb !

Repine not if our clime deny,
Above thine honour'd sod to bloom

The flow'rets of a milder sky.

These owe their birth to genial May;

Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,
Before the winter storm decay,-

And can their worth be type of thine.

* These beautiful and highly expressive lines are extracted from the much admired work, entitled Waverley. They are inscribed to an Oak-tree in

No! for, 'mid storms of fate opposing,

Still higher swell'd each dauntless heart,
And while despair the scene was closing,

Commenc'd thy brief but glorious part,

'Twas then thou sought on Albyn's hill,

(When England's sons the strife resign'd) A rugged race resisting still,

And unsubdu'd though unrefin'd.

Thy death’s-hour heard no kindred wail,

No holy knell thy requiem rung;
Thy mourners were the plaided Gael,

Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung:

Yet who, in fortune's summer-shine,

To waste life's longest term away,
Would change that glorious dawn of thine,

Though darken’d ere its noontide day?

the church.yard of in the Highlands, said to mark the grave of Cap. tain Wogan, who was killed in 1649. The following note concerning this person we also extract from the same work : « The letter from the Chief, containing Flora's lines on the fate of Captain Wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by Clarendon. He had originally engaged in the service of the Parliament, but had abjured that party upon the execution of Charles I. and, upon hearing that the royal standard was set up by the Earl of Glencairn and General Middleton, in the Highlands of Scotland, took leave of Charles II. who was then at Paris, passed into England, assembled a body of cavaliers in the neighbourhood of London, traversed the kingdom which had been so long under domination of the Usurper, by marches conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit, that he safely united his handful of horsemen with the body of Highlanders then in arms. After

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