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SONG.

O WELCOME bat and owlet gray!
Thus winging low your airy way;
And welcome moth and drowsy fly,
That to my ear come humming by :
And welcome shadows, long and deep,
And stars that from the pale sky peep;
O welcome all! to me you say,
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is on the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whispered sound
That steals along the stilly ground.
O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour!
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night!

THE following song, in "Quentin Durward," by SIR WALTER SCOTT, is placed here in consequence of its relation to the three preceding ones, which are expressive of a lover's varied feelings, as induced by expectation.

AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea;

The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trilled all day,

Sits hushed, his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flow'r, they know the hour, But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high Sings high-born cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know, But where is County Guy?

JAMES HOGG.

SONG.

LANG I sat by the broom sae green,
An', O, my heart was eerie!

For aye this strain was breathed within,
"Your laddie will no come near ye!"
Lie still, thou wee bit fluttering thing,
What means this weary wavering?
Nae heart returns thy raptured spring,
Your laddie will no come near ye.

His leifu' sang the robin sung

On the bough that hung sae near me, Wi' tender grief my heart was wrung, For, O, the strain was dreary!

The robin's sang it could na be,
That gart the tear-drap blind my ee ;-
How ken'd the wee bird on the tree

That my laddie wad no come near me?

The new-wean'd lamb on yonder lea,
It bleats out through the braken;
The herried bird upon the tree

Mourns o'er its nest forsaken ;-
If they are wae, how weel may I?
Nae grief like mine aneath the sky;
The lad I lo'e he cares na by,

Though my fond heart is breakin'.

O, WEEL befa' the maiden gay
In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonny May

That wons in yonder glen;

Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel, Wha's aye sae kind, an' aye sae leal, An' pure as blooming asphodel

Amang sae mony men.

O, weel befa' the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!

'Tis sweet to hear the music float

Along the gloaming lea;

'Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note

Come pealing frae the tree;

To see the lambkin's lightsome race-
The speckled kid in wanton chase-
The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in her mountain den ;

But sweeter far the bonny face
That smiles in yonder glen!

O, had it no been for the blush
O' maiden's virgin flame,

Dear beauty never had been known,
An' never had a name;

But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
Was modelled by an angel's frame,
The power o' beauty reigns supreme
O'er a' the sons o' men;

But deadliest far the sacred flame
Burns in a lonely glen!

There's beauty in the violet's vest

There's hinney in the haw;

There 's dew within the rose's breast,

The sweetest o' them a'.

The sun will rise an' set again,

An' lace wi' burning goud the main ;

The rainbow bend out o'er the plain,

Sae lovely to the ken;

But lovelier far my bonny thing

That wons in yonder glen!

WILLIAM LAIDLAW.

[The two following songs are from "The Forest Minstrel," by JAMES HOGG and others, 1810.]

LUCY'S FLITTIN'.

"TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in',
An' Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,
That Lucy row'd up her wee kist, wi' her a' in 't,
An' left her auld master, an' neibers sae dear.
For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer;

She cam there afore the flower bloomed on the pea : An orphan was she, an' they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brought the tear in her e'e.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Right sair was his kind heart the flittin' to see : "Fare ye weel, Lucy," quo' Jamie, an' ran in ;

-The gatherin' tears trickled fast to her knee. As down the burn-side she gaed slaw wi' her flittin', "Fare ye weel Lucy," was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin 't, high on the tree sittin',

An' robin was chirpin 't the brown leaves amang.

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