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SPRING comes in beauty, with her vernal wand-
A goddess full of cheerfulness and song!
There's not a tree that lives upon the land
But ope's its eyelids as she steals along.
The aged oak, that lifts its arms so strong,
By yon sequester'd ruin's lonely wall—

Through sombre winter suffocated 'mong
The twining ivy-hears her joyous call;
While groves and glens, by every water-fall,
In haste redress in fresh and lovely green;
And flowers look forth like scattered stars; and all
Is young and fair, and sunny and serene.
This is the resurrection of sweet things:
She o'er the dædal earth her wondrous beauty
flings!

ALAS! HOW TIME DOTH CHANGE US ALL.

ALAS! how time doth change us all-
The youthful and the gay,

Oft like the leaves of autumn fall,
And wither and decay.
The brightest bloom is soon o'ercast,
And drops upon its stem,
For who can bind joy's wings so fast,
That he must dwell with them?

SONG.

Composed for the Anniversary Meeting of the "Scottish Benevolent Society of St. Andrew."

Air-"The Meeting of the Waters."

AGAIN has old time on his shadowy wings, Brought round this blest night, when true happiness springs,

For who has the blood of a Scot in his veins,
And loves not to soften pale poverty's pains?

O! the land of the thistle, the land of the
plaid,

The land where brave Wallace and Bruce drew the blade;

The land of the heather, the home of the

free,

Of lake, cloud, and mountain, a bumper to thee.

Stern home, where the hurricane loftily blows, Where the bones of our fathers in calmness repose, Where the eagle extends her broad wings on the gale,

And the pibroch is heard in each echoing vale. O! the land of the thistle, &c.

'Tis there that a Ramsay, a Scott, and a Burns, Lie sacred at rest in their stranger trod urns;

While their fame wings on high, o'er this bright world of love,

May their souls smile on Scotia from realms far above.

O! the land of the thistle, &c.

May wealth wave her banners of light o'er our club, May its members on rocks of oppression ne'er rub, May the widow, the orphan, the sick and the poor, Be relieved with a smile, when they call at our door.

O the land of the thistle, &c.

THE QUEEN HAS GANE HAME.

Air-"Brogs an' Brochan an' a'."

THE Queen has gane hame frae the Highlands,
The Highlands sae bonnie and braw!

To speak o' the lochs an' the islands
She saw whan frae England awa!
Her lord an' her bairnies are wi' her-
Her nobles proud that wi' her came,
An' noo we nae langer can see her,

For, certes! the Queen has gane hame.

She wander'd in joy 'mang the mountains-
She saunter'd by streamlet and glen—
She sail'd o'er the rock-cradled fountains-
She gazed on the bravest of men--
She clamb the steep hills 'mang the heather-
She knew every summit by name-

She view'd them in bright and dark weather;
But noo she has left an' gane hame!

What signifies Buckingham palace?—
What signifies Windsor an' Cowes?
Gae speak o' the land o' the Wallace,
An' then every proper heart lows!
Gae speak o' Glencoe an' Loch-Laggan,
And other grand spots we could name;
We canna weel help a bit braggin,

Although that the Queen has gane hame.

Then welcome soon back wi' your bairnies,
To Clutha's great city sae fair-
We'll show you our hills an' our cairnies
That rise in the mid-summer air!

We'll gather in glory about you,

An' kindle your heart to a flame; Wi' pibroch's loud strains we 'll salute you When next time ye wander frae hame!

THE GREENOCK RAILWAY.
Tune-"King of the Cannibal Islands."
'Twas on a Monday morning soon,
As I lay snoring at Dunoon,
Dreaming of wonders in the moon,

I nearly lost the railway.
So up I got, put on my clothes,
And felt, as you may well suppose,
Of sleep I scarce had half-a-dose,
Which made my yawns as round as O's;
No matter, on went hat and coat,
A cup of coffee, boiling hot,

I poured like lava down my throat
In haste to catch the railway.

Racing, chasing to the shore,
Those who fled from every door,
There never was such haste before
To catch the Greenock railway.

The steam was up, the wind was high,
A dark cloud scour'd across the sky,
The quarter-deck was scarcely dry,
Of the boat that meets the railway;
Yet thick as sheep in market pen,
Stood all the Sunday-watering men,
Like growling lions in a den,
With faces inches five and ten;
Some were hurrying to and fro,
"Alack there'll be no room for us-
Let's get into the homnibus:"
"O pray, my dear! don't make a fuss
If we should loose the railway."

Blowing, glowing all the way,
Crying upon the train to stay,
We'll never get to town to-day,
Upon the morning railway!

Now the crowded station gained,
Rain be-drenched and mud be-stained,
Melting-browed and asthma-pained
Hurrying to the railway!
A boat has just arrived before,
Which later left a nearer shore,

And fills a full-sized train and more,
Which is a most confounded bore;
But coach to coach are quickly joined—
Which surely is surpassing kind;
And off we fly as fleet as wind,
Upon the Greenock railway!

Thus the sports of railway speed,
Nought on earth can now exceed,
Except my song, which all must read!
About the Greenock railway.

The moral of my song I add,
To make you married ladies glad,
Who lately were a little sad-

Before the Greenock railway.
So now dispel each moppish frown,
And don your most attractive gown,
Your loving husbands can get down,
In one short fleeting hour from town;
Others were sick and crying oh!
Who's wooden peg 's that on my toe?
In the boat that meets the railway.

Rushing, crushing up and down,
Tipping the cash to Captain B—n;
O what a hurry to get to town
Upon the morning railway.

When arrived at Greenock Quay,
What confusion-only see-
Each selfish wight so quickly flee

In hopes to catch the railway.
High and low, thick and thin,
Trying who the race shall win,
Creaking boots and hob-nailed shoon,
All determined to get in!
People laughing at the shore;
Merchants smiling at each door;
Those running who ne'er ran before,
And all to catch the railway!

Fleet through Greenock's narrow lanes,
Over mud, and dibs and stanes,
Careless o' their boots and banes,

And all to catch the railway.

See the rear-guard far behind,

Out of temper, out of wind,
Out of patience, out of mind!

For fear they loose the railway.
Last comes old Fatsides with his wife,
Waging a real hot-mutton strife;
"Such scenes in Scotland sure are rife;
It's wery hot upon my life!"

While vessels waiting at the quay,
Conduct them swiftly home to tea,
Or to a drop of barley bree,
So certain is the Railway.

Then let us steal a march on time,
And echo forth this ranting rhyme,
Which street Rubini's think sublime,
About the Greenock Railway.

WATER.*

Air-"Greenock Railway."

WHILE love and fame has been the rage
Of this, and every other age,

I lift my pen and do engage

To write a song on water.
Water which first in Eden sprung,

When this great world was fair and young,
Which clears the brain and cools the tongue,
Whose praises are too seldom sung;
Let others call it Adam's wine,
To make it seem more superfine:
No poor ideal theme is thine,

Thou sweetest beverage, water!
Water is the draught of life,
Neither causes pain nor strife,
Never severs man and wife-
Pure gravitation water.

O were you in a desert place,

With sicken'd heart and feeble pace—
The hot sun burning in your face,

What would restore you?-water!
And if the quality were good,
As in each town it really should,
Both fit for drinking and for food,
For be it plainly understood,
What can the needy people do
When ne'er a filter it runs through,
But swallow stuff which makes them grue,
This hot unfiltered water.

Good water is the draught of life,
Neither causes pain nor strife,
Never severs man nor wife-

Pure gravitation water,

This song was written while I was in London. I dedicate it to Andrew Gemmill, Esq., the projector and Secretary of the Gorbals Gravitation Water Company, as a mark of respect for such a great benefit to the inhabitants of the south side of the Clyde.

To cure each obstinate disease-
Though quacks may babble what they please,
Nothing is sure to give such ease

As this good beverage, water.
Tho' maiden face were e'er so fair
With rosy cheek and flowing hair
And all these gifts beyond compare,
Which fall to more than beauty's share,
The brilliant eye would quickly dim,
The lips would lose their crimson rim,
And every feature soon look grim,
If wanting thee, pure water.

Water is the draught of life,
Neither causes pain nor strife,
Never severs man nor wife-
Pure gravitation water.

The health of towns, the health of men
Are well secured in safety, when
As pure as streams from mountain glen
They have salubrious water.
But, oh! where filthy water streams,
It gives a panic even in dreams,

What time the vermin through it swims,
And fills the clearest head with whims.
Disease and death are in the train
With sad inflictions on the brain,
Then be it hoped we soon may gain
Good gravitation water.

Water is the draught of life,
Neither causes pain nor strife,
Never severs man nor wife-
Pure gravitation water.

LOVELY JULY!

Of all the sweet months of the yearThere's none like pretty July; The early sun shines warm and clear,

And flowers have open'd fully. All sparkling is the world at noon,

At eve the air breathes cooly; Of all the sweet months of the year, There's none like rosy July!

Young April has its smiles and tears,
And May its opening roses;
And though the sun in strength appears,
Oft darkness round him closes ;

And even though June brings forth new bloom,
And summer lives more truly-
Yet in the sweet months of the year,
There's none like pretty July!

The birds aboon are in full tune,
With joy the woodlands ringing;
The hawthorn trees perfume the breeze,
And all the world is singing;
The butterfly and bee sweep by

To blossoms opened newly;
Of all the sweet months of the year,
There's none like lovely July!

SUOTERMICROSCOPOGRAPY!

BEING A SCIENCE LIKELY CALCULATED TO EXTIN-
GUISH PHRENOLOGY, MESMERISM, HYDROPATHY,
AND ALL THE OTHER 'OLOGIES, 'ISMS, 'ATHYS, ETC.
Tune-"Then why should we quarrel for riches."

O, THIS is the age of invention,
The reign of large heads and what not;
So what I am going to mention

Is another discovery red-hot!
"Tis a wonderful time eighteen-hunder,
Luc'fer matches and all I would quote ;
But certainly all must sink under
My own most ingenious plot!
O, this is the age of invention, &c.

"Tis call'd Soutermicroscopography,
A name that is perfectly new!
A jaw-breaker in its orthography-
But listen, and learn what I'll do.
Instead of the person attending,

Just send me his boot or his shoe,
I'll tell you to what he's pretending,
And teach you his character true.

For this is the age of invention, &c.

I know by the bumps on the leather
Right well if he 's fat or he's lean-
And whether in hot or cold weather

He's likely to shoot at the Queen!
I know if he's single or married,
And if he is young or is old;

I know if his hopes have miscarried,
And if he is poor or has gold.

For this is the age of invention, &c.

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