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been elevated to the baronetcy only the year previous. His brother, JAMES BOSWELL (1779-1822), an accomplished scholar and student of our early literature, edited Malone's edition of Shakspeare, 21 vols. 8vo, 1821. Sir Alexander had just returned from the funeral of his brother when he engaged in the fatal duel.

Jenny dang the Weaver.
At Willie's wedding on the green,

The lasses, bonny witches!
Were a' dressed out in aprons clean,

And braw white Sunday mutches :
Auld Maggie bade the lads tak' tent,

But Jock would not believe her ;
But soon the fool his folly kent,
For Jenny dang the weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,

Jenny dang the weaver ;
But soon the fool his folly kent,

For Jenny dang the weaver.
At ilka country-dance or reel,

Wi' her he would be bobbing ; When she sat down, he sat down,

And to her would be gabbing ; Where'er she gaed, baith but and ben,

The coof would never leave her ;
Aye keckling like a clocking hen,
But Jenny dang the weaver.

Jenny dang, &c.
Quo' he : 'My lass, to speak my mind,

In troth I needna swither ;
You've bonny een, and if you're kind,

I'll never seek anither :
He hummed and hawed, the lass cried, “Peugh!'

And bade the coof no deave her ;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,
And dang the silly weaver.
And Jenny dang, Jenny dang,

Jenny dang the weaver ;
Syne snapt her fingers, lap and leugh,

And dang the silly weaver.

A norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsent naig and siller whup,
Cried : “There's my beast, lad, haud the grup,

Or tie 't till a tree.
• What's gowd to me?—I've walth o' lan';
Bestow on ane o' worth your han';'
He thought to pay what he was awn

Wi' Jenny's bawbee.
A’ spruce frae ban'boxes and tubs,
A Thing cam neist—but life has rubs-
Foul were the roads, and fou the dubs,

Ah! wae 's me!
A’ clatty, squintin' through a glass,
He girned, *l' faith, a bonny lass !'
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,

Jenny's bawbee.
She bade the laird gang comb his wig,
The sodger no to strut sae big,
The lawyer no to be a prig,

The fool cried : ‘Tehee,
'I kent that I could never fail!'
She preened the dish-clout till his tail,
And cooled him wi' a water-pail,

And kept her bawbee.

Good-night, and Joy be wi' Ye a'. This song is supposed to proceed from the mouth of an aged chieftain.

Good-night, and joy be wi' ye a';

Your harmless mirth has charmed my heart;
May life's fell blasts out ower ye blaw !

In sorrow may ye never part !
My spirit lives, but strength is gone;

The mountain-fires now blaze in vain :
Remember, sons, the deeds I've done,

And in your deeds I 'll live again!
When on yon muir our gallant clan

Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Wha shewed himsel a better man,

Or fiercer waved the red claymore ?
But when in peace-then mark me there-

When through the glen the wanderer came,
I gave him of our lordly fare,

I gave him here a welcome hame.
The auld will speak, the young maun hear;

Be cantie, but be good and leal ;
Your ain ills aye hae heart to bear,

Anither's aye hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,

I 'll see you triumph ere I fa';
My parting breath shall boast you mine-

Good-night, and joy be wi' you a'.

Jenny's Bawbec.
I met four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hingin' lugs, and faces lang ;
I speered at neebour Bauldy Strang,

Wha's thae I see?
Quo' he: Ilk cream-faced, pawky chiel
Thought himsel cunnin as the deil,
And here they cam, awa' to steal

Jenny's bawbee.
The first, a captain till his trade,
Wi' skull ill lined, and back weel clad,
Marched round the barn, and by the shed,

And pappit on his knee.
Quo' he : “My goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een ;'
But deil a beauty he had seen

But-Jenny's bawbee.
A lawyer neist, wi' bletherin' gab,
Wha speeches wove like ony wab,
In ilk ane's corn aye took a dab,

And a' for a fee : Accounts he had through a' the town, And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown; Haith now he thought to clout his gown

Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

The High Street of Edinburgh.

From Edinburgh, or the Ancient Royalty. Tier upon tier I see the mansions rise, Whose azure summits mingle with the skies ;* There, from the earth the labouring porters bear The elements of fire and water high in air ; There, as you scale the steps with toilsome tread, The dripping barrel madefies your head ;

* Sir Alexander seems to have remembered the fourth line in Campbell's Plcasures of Hope :

Whose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky. But Campbell may have stolen his line from Telford's forgotten poem on Eskdale :

Here lofty hills in varied prospect rise,
Whose airy summits mingle with the skies.

Thence, as adown the giddy round you wheel, beauty. His taste was very defective, though he A rising porter greets you with his creel !

had done much to repair his early want of inHere, in these chambers, ever dull and dark, struction. His occupation of a shepherd, among The lady gay received her gayer spark,

solitary hills and glens, must have been favourable Who, clad in silken coat, with cautious tread,

to his poetical enthusiasm. He was not, like Trembled at opening casements overhead;

Burns, thrown into society when young, and But when in safety at her porch he trod,

forced to combat with misfortune. His destiny He seized the ring, and rasped the twisted rod. No idlers then, I trow, were seen to meet,

was unvaried, until he had arrived at a period Linked, six a-row, six hours in Princes Street,

when the bent of his genius was fixed for life. But, one by one, they panted up the hill,

Without society during the day, his evening hours And picked their steps with most uncommon skill; were spent in listening to ancient legends and Then, at the Cross, each joined the motley mob- ballads, of which his mother, like Burns's, was a ' How are ye, Tam?' and, 'How 's a' wi' ye, Bob?' great reciter. This nursery of imagination he has Next to a neighbouring tavern all retired,

himself beautifully described : And draughts of wine their various thoughts inspired. O'er draughts of wine the beau would moan his love ;

O list the mystic lore sublime O'er draughts of wine the cit his bargain drove ;

Of fairy tales of ancient time! O'er draughts of wine the writer penned the will;

I learned them in the lonely glen,

The last abodes of living men,
And legal wisdom counselled o'er a gill.
Yes! mark the street, for youth the great resort,

Where never stranger came our way
Its spacious width the theatre of sport.

By summer night, or winter day ; There, midst the crowd, the jingling hoop is driven ;

Where neighbouring hind or cot was noneFull many a leg is hit, and curse is given.

Our converse was with heaven alone There, on the pavement, mystic forms are chalked,

With voices through the cloud that sung, Defaced, renewed, delayed—but never balked ;

And brooding storms that round us hung. There romping Miss the rounded slate may drop,

O lady, judge, if judge ye may, And kick it out with persevering hop.

How stern and ample was the sway

Of themes like these when darkness fell,
There, in the dirty current of the strand,
Boys drop the rival corks with ready hand,

And gray-haired sires the tales would tell !
And, wading through the puddle with slow pace,

When doors were barred, and eldern dame Watch in solicitude the doubtful race !

Plied at her task beside the flame, And there, an active band, with frequent boast,

That through the smoke and gloom alone Vault in succession o'er each wooden post.

On dim and umbered faces shoneOr a bold stripling, noted for his might,

The bleat of mountain-goat on high, Heads the array, and rules the mimic fight.

That from the cliff came quavering, by ; From hand and sling now fly the whizzing stones,

The echoing rock, the rushing flood, Unheeded broken heads and broken bones.

The cataract's swell, the moaning wood; The rival hosts in close engagement mix,

The undefined and mingled hum

Voice of the desert never dumb !
Drive and are driven by the dint of sticks.
The bicker rages, till some mother's fears

All these have left within this heart
Ring a sad story in a bailie's ears.

A feeling tongue can ne'er impart; Her prayer is heard ; the order quick is sped,

A wildered and unearthly flame, And, from that corps which hapless Porteous led,

A something that 's without a name. A brave detachment, probably of two,

Hogg was descended from a family of shepRush, like two kites, upon the warlike crew,

herds, and born in the vale of Ettrick, Selkirkshire. Who, struggling, like the fabled frogs and mice, Are pounced upon, and carried in a trice.

According to the parish register, he was baptised But, mark that motley group, in various garb

on the oth of December 1770. When a mere There vice begins to form her rankling barb;

child, he was put out to service, acting first as The germ of gambling sprouts in pitch-and-toss,

a cow-herd, until capable of taking care of a And brawl, successive, tells disputed loss.

flock of sheep. He had in all but little schooling, From hand to hand the whirling halfpence pass, though he was too prone to represent himself as And, every copper gone, they fly to brass.

an uninstructed prodigy of nature. When twenty Those polished rounds which decorate the coat, years of age, he entered the service of Mr Laidlaw, And brilliant shine upon some youth of note,

Blackhouse. He was then an eager reader of Offspring of Birmingham's creative art,

poetry and romances, and he subscribed to a Now from the faithful button-holes depart. To sudden twitch the rending stitches yield,

circulating library in Peebles, the miscellaneous

contents of which he perused with the utmost And Enterprise again essays the field. So, when a few fleet years of his short span

avidity. He was a remarkably fine-looking young Have ripened this dire passion in the man,

man, with a profusion of light-brown hair, which When thousand after thousand takes its flight

he wore coiled up under his hat or blue bonnet, In the short circuit of one wretched night,

the envy of all the country maidens. An attack Next shall the honours of the forest fall,

of illness, however, brought on by over-exertion And ruin desolate the chieftain's hall;

on a hot summer day, completely altered his Hill after hill some cunning clerk shall gain ;

countenance, and changed the very form of his Then in a mendicant behold a thane !

features. His first literary effort was in song

writing, and in 1801 he published a small volume JAMES HOGG.

of pieces. He was introduced to Sir Walter Scott

by his master's son, Mr William Laidlaw, and JAMES HOGG, generally known by his poetical assisted in the collection of old ballads for the name of 'The Ettrick Shepherd,' was perhaps the Border Minstrelsy. He soon imitated the style most creative and imaginative of the uneducated of these ancient strains with great felicity, and poets. His fancy had a wide range, picturing in published in 1807 another volume of songs and its flights scenes of wild aërial magnificence and poems, under the title of The Mountain Bard.


He is

He embarked in sheep-farming, and took a journey prose is very unequal. He had no skill in arrangto the island of Harris on a speculation of this ing incidents or delineating character. kind; but all he had saved as a shepherd, or by often coarse and extravagant ; yet some of his his publication, was lost in these attempts. He stories have much of the literal truth and happy then repaired to Edinburgh, and endeavoured to minute painting of Defoe. The worldly schemes subsist by his pen. A collection of songs, The of the Shepherd were seldom successful. Though Forest Minstrel (1810), was his first effort ; his he had failed as a sheep-farmer, he ventured second was a periodical called The Spy; but it again, and took a large farm, Mount Benger, was not till the publication of The Queen's Wake, from the Duke of Buccleuch. Here he also was in 1813, that the Shepherd established his reputa- unsuccessful ; and his sole support, for the latter tion as an author. This ‘legendary poem con- years of his life, was the remuneration afforded sists of a collection of tales and ballads supposed by his literary labours. He lived in a cottage to be sung to Mary, Queen of Scots, by the native which he had built at Altrive, on a piece of moorbards of Scotland assembled at a royal wake at land-seventy acres-presented to him by the Holyrood, in order that the fair queen might Duchess of Buccleuch. His love of angling and prove

field-sports amounted to a passion, and when he The wondrous powers of Scottish song.

could no longer fish or hunt, he declared his

belief that his death was near. In the autumn of The design was excellent, and the execution so 1835 he was attacked with a dropsical complaint ; varied and masterly, that Hogg was at once and on the 21st of November of that year, after placed among the first of our native poets. The some days of insensibility, he breathed his last different productions of the local minstrels are as calmly, and with as little pain, as he ever fell strung together by a thread of narrative so grace. asleep in his gray plaid on the hillside. His fully written in many parts, that the reader is death was deeply mourned in the vale of Ettrick, surprised equally at the delicacy and the genius for all rejoiced in his fame; and, notwithstanding of the author. At the conclusion of the poem, his personal foibles, the Shepherd was generous, Hogg alludes to his illustrious friend Scott, and kind-hearted, and charitable far beyond his means. adverts with some feeling to an advice which In the activity and versatility of his powers, Sir Walter had once given him, to abstain from Hogg resembled Allan Ramsay. Neither of them his worship of poetry.

had the strength of passion or the grasp of in

tellect peculiar to Burns ; but, on the other hand, The land was charmed to list his lays;

their style was more discursive, playful, and fanIt knew the harp of ancient days. The Border chiefs, that long had been

ciful. Burns seldom projects himself, as it were, In sepulchres unhearsed and green,

out of his own feelings and situation, whereas Passed from their mouldy vaults away

both Ramsay and Hogg are happiest when they In armour red and stern array,

soar into the world of fancy, or retrace the scenes And by their moonlight halls were seen

of antiquity. The Ettrick Shepherd abandoned In visor, helm, and habergeon.

himself entirely to the genius of old romance Even fairies sought our land again,

and legendary story. He loved, like Spenser, to So powerful was the magic strain.

luxuriate in fairy visions, and to picture scenes of Blest be his generous heart for aye !

supernatural splendour and beauty, where He told me where the relic lay ; Pointed my way with ready will,

The emerald fields are of dazzling glow,
Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill;

And the flowers of everlasting blow.
Watched my first notes with curious eye,
And wondered at my minstrelsy:

His Kilmeny is one of the finest fairy tales that He little weened a parent's tongue

ever was conceived by poet or painter; and passSuch strains had o'er my cradle sung.

ages in The Pilgrims of the Sun have the same But when, to native feelings true,

abstract remote beauty and lofty imagination. I struck upon a chord was new;

Burns would have scrupled to commit himself to When by myself I 'gan to play,

these aërial phantoms. His visions were more He tried to wile my harp away.

material, and linked to the joys and sorrows of Just when her notes began with skill,

actual existence. Akin to this peculiar feature in To sound beneath the southern hill,

Hogg's poetry is the spirit of most of his songsAnd twine around my bosom's core,

a wild lyrical flow of fancy, that is sometimes How could we part for evermore?

inexpressibly sweet and musical. He wanted art 'Twas kindness all-I cannot blame

to construct a fable, and taste to give due effect For bootless is the minstrel flame; But sure a bard might well have known

to his imagery and conceptions ; but there are Another's feelings by his own !

few poets who impress us so much with the idea

of direct inspiration, or convince us so strongly Scott was grieved at this allusion to his friendly that poetry is indeed an art unteachable and counsel, as it was given at a time when no one untaught.' dreamed of the Shepherd possessing the powers that he displayed in The Queen's Wake. Various Bonny Kilmeny.From 'The Queen's Wake.' works now proceeded from his pen-Mador of the Moor, a poem in the Spenserian stanza ; The

Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen ;

But it wasna to meet Duneira's men, Pilgrims of the Sun, in blank verse; The Hunting

Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, of Badlewe, The Poetic Mirror, Queen Hynde,

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. Dramatic Tales, &c.; also several novels, as It was only to hear the yorlin sing, Winter Evening Tales, The Brownie of Bodsbeck, And pu' the cress-flower round the spring ; The Three Perils of Man, The Three Perils of The scarlet hypp and the hindberrye, Woman, The Confessions of a Sinner, &c. Hogg's And the nut that hung frae the hazel-tree;

For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be.

Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair, But lang may her minny look o'er the wa',

And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. And lang may she seek i' the greenwood shaw; But lang, lang after baith night and day, Lang the laird of Duneira blame,

When the sun and the world have elyed away; And lang, lang greet or Kilmeny come hame !

When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, When many a day had come and fled,

Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!'... When grief grew calm, and hope was dead,

Then Kilmeny begged again to see When mass for Kilmeny's soul had been sung,

The friends she had left in her own countrye, When the beadsman had prayed, and the dead-bell To tell of the place where she had been, rung,

And the glories that lay in the land unseen. ... Late, late in a gloamin, when all was still,

With distant music, soft and deep, When the fringe was red on the westlin' hill,

They lulled Kilmeny sound asleep ; The wood was sere, the moon i' the wane,

And when she awakened, she lay her lane, The reek o' the cot hung over the plain

All happed with flowers in the greenwood wene. Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane ;

When seven lang years had come and fled, When the ingle lowed with an eiry leme,

When grief was calm, and hope was dead, Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame!

When scarce was remembered Kilmeny's name, Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been ?

Late, late in a gloamin Kilmeny came hame! Lang hae we sought baith holt and dean ;

And oh, her beauty was fair to see, By linn, by ford, and greenwood tree,

But still and steadfast was her ee; Yet you are halesome and fair to see.

Such beauty bard may never declare, Where gat ye that joup o' the lily sheen ?

For there was no pride nor passion there; That bonny snood of the birk sae green?

And the soft desire of maiden's een, And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen?

In that mild face could never be seen. Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?'

Her seymar was the lily flower, Kilmeny looked up with a lovely grace,

And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower ; But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny's face ;

And her voice like the distant melodye, As still was her look, and as still was her ee,

That floats along the twilight sea. As the stillness that lay on the emerant lea,

But she loved to raike the lanely glen, Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea.

And keeped afar frae the haunts of men,
For Kilmeny had been she knew not where,

Her holy hymns unheard to sing,
And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare ; To suck the flowers and drink the spring,
Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew,

But wherever her peaceful form appeared,
Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew, The wild beasts of the hill were cheered ;
But it seemed as the harp of the sky had rung,

The wolf played blithely round the field, And the airs of heaven played round her tongue, The lordly bison lowed and kneeled, When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, The dun deer wooed with manner bland, And a land where sin had never been.

And cowered aneath her lily hand. In yon greenwood there is a waik,

And when at eve the woodlands rung, And in that waik there is a wene,

When hymns of other worlds she sung, And in that wene there is a maike

In ecstasy of sweet devotion, That neither hath flesh, blood, nor bane ;

Oh, then the glen was all in motion; And down in yon greenwood he walks his lane ! The wild beasts of the forest came, In that green wene Kilmeny lay,

Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, Her bosom happed wi' the flowrets gay ;

And goved around, charmed and amazed ; But the air was sost, and the silence deep,

Even the dull cattle crooned and gazed, And bonny Kilmeny fell sound asleep;

And murmured, and looked with anxious pain She kend nae mair, nor opened her ee,

For something the mystery to explain. Till waked by the hymns of a far countrye,

The buzzard came with the throstle-cock; She wakened on a couch of the silk sae slim,

The corby left her houf in the rock; All striped wi' the bars of the rainbow's rim ;

The blackbird alang wi' the eagle flew; And lovely beings round were rise,

The hind came tripping o'er the dew; Who erst had travelled mortal life.

The wolf and the kid their raike began, They clasped her waist and her hands sae fair,

And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; They kissed her cheek, and they kamed her hair, The hawk and the hern attour them hung, And round came many a blooming fere,

And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; Saying : 'Bonny Kilmeny, ye 're welcome here!'...

And all in a peaceful ring were hurled : They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away,

It was like an eve in a sinless world ! And she walked in the light of a sunless day;

When a month and a day had come and gane, The sky was a dome of crystal bright,

Kilmeny sought the greenwood wene, The fountain of vision, and fountain of light;

There laid her down on the leaves so green, The emerald fields were of dazzling glow,

And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen! And the flowers of everlasting blow. Then deep in the stream her body they laid, That her youth and beauty never might fade ;

To the Comet of 1811. And they smiled on heaven when they saw her lie

How lovely is this wildered scene, In the stream of life that wandered by ;

As twilight from her vaults so blue And she heard a song, she heard it sung,

Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green, She kend not where, but sae sweetly it rung,

To sleep embalmed in midnight dew! It fell on her ear like a dream of the morn. "Oh, blest be the day Kilmeny was born!

All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, Now shall the land of the spirits see,

Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky! Now shall it ken what a woman may be !

And thou, mysterious guest of night,
The sun that shines on the world sae bright,

Dread traveller of immensity!
A borrowed gleid frae the fountain of light;
And the moon that sleeks the sky sae dun,

Stranger of heaven ! I bid thee hail !
Like a gowden bow, or a beamless sun,

Shred from the pall of glory riven,

That flashest in celestial gale,

Broad pennon of the King of Heaven ! Art thou the flag of woe and death,

From angel's ensign-staff unsurled ? Art thou the standard of his wrath

Waved o'er a sordid sinful world?

No; from that pure pellucid beam,

That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, * No latent evil we can deem,

Bright herald of the eternal throne ! Whate'er portends thy front of fire,

Thy streaming locks so lovely paleOr peace to man, or judgments dire,

Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail ! Where hast thou roamed these thousand years?

Why sought these polar paths again, From wilderness of glowing spheres,

To fling thy vesture o'er the wain? And when thou scal’st the Milky-way,

And vanishest from human view, A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray

Through wilds of yon empyreal blue ! Oh, on thy rapid prow to glide !

To sail the boundless skies with thee, And plough the twinkling stars aside,

Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea ! To brush the embers from the sun,

The icicles from off the pole ; Then far to other systems run,

Where other moons and planets roll ! Stranger of heaven! oh, let thine eye

Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream; Eccentric as thy course on high,

And airy as thine ambient beam ! And long, long may thy silver ray

Our northern arch at eve adorn; Then, wheeling to the east away,

Light the gray portals of the morn!

Then he pours his melting ditty,

And love is a' the theme, And he 'll woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame. When the blewart bears a pearl,

And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonny lucken gowan

Has fauldit up her ee,
Then the laverock frae the blue list,

Draps down, and thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame. See yonder pawky shepherd

That lingers on the hillHis yowes are in the fauld,

And his lambs are lying still ; Yet he downa gang to bed,

For his heart is in a flame To meet his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame. When the little wee bit heart

Rises high in the breast,
And the little wee bit starn

Rises red in the east,
Oh, there's a joy sae dear,

That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,

When the kye comes hame. Then since all nature joins

In this love without alloy, Oh, wha wad prove a traitor

To nature's dearest joy? Or wha wad choose a crown,

Wi'its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame?

When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloamin and the mirk,
When the kye comes hame.

Song-When the Kye comes llame. Come all ye jolly shepherds

'That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken; What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name? 'Tis to woo a bonny lassie When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
'Tween the gloamin and the mirk,

When the kye comes hame. 'Tis not beneath the coronet,

Nor canopy of state ; 'Tis not on couch of velvet,

Nor arbour of the great'Tis beneath the spreading birk,

In the glen without the name, Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,

When the kye comes hame. There the blackbird bigs his nest

For the mate he lo'es to see, And on the topmost bough,

Oh, a happy bird is he !

The Skylark.
Bird of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee !

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth;

Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be !

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
O to abide in the desert with thee!

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, a happy imitator of the old Scottish ballads, and a man of various talents, was born at Blackwood, near Dalswinton, Dumfriesshire, December 7, 1784. His father was

• It was reckoned by many that this was the same comet which appeared at the birth of our Saviour.—Hogg.


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