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As the loud blast that tears the skies
Serves but to root thy native oak.
Rule Britannia, &c.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.
Rule Britannia, &c.

To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All shall be subject to the main,
And every shore it circles thine.
Rule Britannia, &c.

The muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest isle, with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
Rule Britannia, &c.

A NATIVE of Crieff.

David Mallet.

Born 1700.

Died 1765.

He wrote some tragedies, especially one in conjunction with Thomson, in which occurs the famous song "Rule Britannia," which is generally believed, however, to have been the composition of Thomson. His best title to the name of poet is derived from his ballads. He died in London, 21st April 1765.

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

"TWAS at the silent solemn hour,
When night and morning meet;
In glided Margaret's grimly ghost,
And stood at William's feet.
Her face was like an April morn
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily hand
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear

When youth and years are flown:
Such is the robe that kings must wear,
When death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But love had, like the canker-worm,
Consumed her early prime;

The rose grew pale, and left her cheek-
She died before her time.

"Awake!" she cried, "thy true love calls, Come from her midnight grave:

Now let thy pity hear the maid
Thy love refused to save.

"This is the dark and dreary hour
When injured ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden vow,
And give me back my troth.

"Why did you promise love to me,
And not that promise keep?
Why did you swear my eyes were bright,
Yet leave those eyes to weep?

"How could you say my face was fair,

And yet that face forsake?

How could you win my virgin heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

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Why did you say my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?

And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

"That face, alas! no more is fair,
Those lips no longer red:

Dark are my eyes, now closed in death, And every charm is fled.

"The hungry worm my sister is;

This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,

Till that last morn appear.

"But hark! the cock has warned me hence;

A long and last adieu!

Come see, false man, how low she lies,
Who died for love of you."

The lark sung loud; the morning smiled.
With beams of rosy red:
Pale William quaked in every limb,
And raving left his bed.

He hied him to the fatal place
Where Margaret's body lay;

And stretched him on the green-grass turf
That wrapt her breathless clay.

And thrice he called on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full sore;

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more!

THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.

THE smiling morn, the breathing spring,
Invite the tunefu' birds to sing;
And, while they warble from the spray,
Love melts the universal lay.

Let us, Amanda, timely wise,

Like them, improve the hour that flies;
And in soft raptures waste the day,
Among the birks of Invermay.

For soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear;
At this thy living bloom will fade,
As that will strip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feathered songsters are no more;
And when they drop and we decay,
Adieu the birks of Invermay!

Robert Crawford. {

About

1700.

Drowned 1733.

AUTHOR of "Tweedside," and "The Bush aboon Traquair." He assisted Allan Ramsay in his "Tea Table Miscellany." He was drowned on his return from France in 1733.

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded, never move her;
At the bonny Bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled and made me glad,
No maid seemed ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her;
I tried to soothe my amorous flame,
In words that I thought tender;
If more there passed, I'm not to blame--
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet she shews disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloomed fair in May,
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay-
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
O make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me:
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender;
I'll leave the Bush aboon Traquair-
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

Philip Doddridge.

Born 1702.

Died 1751.

His

A CELEBRATED English divine, born in London, 26th June 1702. father was a clergyman in the English Church, but died while he was only thirteen. Doddridge, from conscientious motives, joined the Nonconformists; he soon became one of their most popular ministers, and in 1729 he was settled at Northampton. He is the author of many hymns, which are to be found in almost every collection of sacred poetry. He died on 26th October 1751.

SELF-DEDICATION REVIEWED.

O HAPPY day that fix'd my choice
On Thee, my Saviour and my God!
Well may this glowing heart rejoice,
And tell its raptures all abroad.
'Tis done, the great transaction's done!
I am my Lord's, and He is mine;
He drew me, and I follow'd on,

Charm'd to confess the voice divine.

Now rest my long-divided heart,
Fix'd on this blissful centre, rest:
Nor ever from thy Lord depart,
With Him of every good possess'd.

High Heav'n, that heard the solemn vow,
That vow renew'd shall daily hear;

Till in life's latest hour I bow,
And bless in death a bond so dear.

THE HEAVENLY SABBATH.

LORD of the Sabbath! hear us pray,
In this thy house, on this thy day;
Accept as grateful sacrifice,

The songs which from thy people rise.

Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord! we love;
But there's a nobler rest above;

To that our lab'ring souls aspire,
With ardent hope and strong desire.

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