Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, stone, As with elfin playfellows well known, And life reveal'd to innocence alone. Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, The brightness of the world, O thou once free, Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance! Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Under the twigs of a young birch tree! His soul is with the saints, I trust. EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. Irs balmy lips the infant blest Relaxing from its mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent satiety ! And such my infant's latest sigh! O tell, rude stone! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lię, Death sang to sleep with lullaby. * Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first introduced the works of Homer to his country. + I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the passage in the Filocopo of Boccaccio: where the sage instructor, Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl. Biancafiore, had learned their letters, sets cominciò Racheo a mettere il suo officio in essecuzione them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. "Incon intera sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece legere il santo libro d' Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne freddi cuori occendere." ROBERT TANNAHILL. ROBERT TANNAHILL was born at Paisley, Scot- | land, June 3, 1774. He was slightly lame, which debarred him from the more active boyish sports, and so he used to compose riddles and other rhymes at an early age. He had a passion for music, and occasionally played the fife at a training, became expert on the flute, and finally began setting new words to old and favorite tunes. He had learned the trade of a weaver, and spent two years at it in Bolton, England, during which he wrote songs, on a rude desk attached to his loom. He returned to Paisley in 1802, and made the acquaintance of Archibald Smith, the composer, who set some of his songs to music. In 1807 Tannahill published a vol ume entitled "Poems and Songs," which was quite successful. A year or two later he was chagrined at the refusal of Constable & Co. to publish a new volume for him, and of George Thomson to give some of his songs a place in his collection. These and other discourage. ments preyed upon his mind until he became demented and drowned himself, May 17, 1810. He was unmarried. JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE. THE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond, And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin' To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom, And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny; For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening, Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie, The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm'd with sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur, Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain; And reckon as naething the height o' its splendor, If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane. LOUDOUN'S BONNIE WOODS AND BRAES. LOUDOUN'S bonnie woods and braes, Wald gi'e Britons law, lassie? Wha would shun the field of danger? Wha frae fame wad live a stranger? Now when Freedom bids avenge her, Wha would shun her ca', lassie ? Loudoun's bonnie woods and braes Ha'e seen our happy bridal days, And gentle Hope shall soothe thy waes, When I am far awa', lassie. "Hark! the swelling bugle sings, Yielding joy to thee, laddie, But the dolefu' bugle brings Waefu' thoughts to me, laddie. Lanely I may climb the mountain, Lanely stray beside the fountain, Still the weary moments countin', Far frae love and thee, laddie. O'er the gory fields of war, When Vengeance drives his crimson car, Thou'lt maybe fa', frae me afar, And nane to close thy e'e, laddie." Oh resume thy wonted smile! Oh suppress thy fears, lassie! That the soldier shares, lassie; Till the day we die, lassie ; But far to the camp they ha'e marched my dear And now it is winter wi' Nature and me. THROUGH CROCKSTON CASTLE'S THROUGH Crockston Castle's lanely wa's Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep, Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure; That roars between me and my treasure. For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, I'll to this bosom clasp my Mary! RAB RORYSON'S BONNET. YE'LL a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet, Ye'll a' ha'e heard tell o' Rab Roryson's bonnet; Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and 'Twas no for itsel', 'twas the head that was in it, 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, Gar'd a' bodies talk o' Rab Roryson's bonnet. Was his shelter in winter, in summer his shade; This bonnet, that theekit his wonderfu' head, And at kirk or at market, or bridals, I ween, A braw, gaucier bonnet there never was seen. Some maintain'd it was black, some maintain'd 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me. Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak Still his bonnet had naething uncommon ava'; It had something o' baith, as a body may trew. But, in sooth, I assure you, for aught that I saw, mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the stey rocky brae; Tho' the haill parish talk'd o' Rab Roryson's bonnet, 'Twas a' for the marvellous head that was in it. That head-let it rest-it is now in the mools, Tho' in life a' the warld beside it were fools; Yet o' what kind o' wisdom bis head was possest, Nane e'er kent but himsel', sae there's nane that will miss 't. Ah! Harry, my love, tho' thou ne'er shouldst return, Till life's latest hour I thy absence will mourn, And memory shall fade like the leaf on the tree, Ere my heart spare ae thought on anither but thee. THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. 'LET us go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blaeberries grow 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er Wi' the flowers o' the mountain; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' their spoils To the bower o' my dearie. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling; So merrily we'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear sheiling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Now the summer is in prime, Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. MY BONNY YOUNG LADDIE. OUR bonny Scots lads, in their green tartan plaids, Their blue-belted bonnets, and feathers sae braw, Rank'd up on the green, were fair to be seen, But my bonnie young laddie was fairest of a'. His cheeks were as red as the sweet heatherbell, Or the red western cloud looking down on the snaw, His lang yellow hair o'er his braid shoulders fell, And the e'en o' the lasses were fix'd on him a'. My heart sunk wi' wae on the wearifu' day, When torn frae my bosom they march'd him awa', He bade me farewell, he cried "O be leal," And his red cheeks were wet wi' the tears that did fa'. WHEN JOHN AND ME WERE MARRIED. WHEN John and me were married, Wi' working late and early, We're come to what ye see, The lowe of love made labor light; The rose blows gay on cairny brae, As weel's in lofty ha'; Sae, lassie, take the lad ye like, Whate'er your minnie say, Tho' ye should make your bridal bed Of clean pease-strae. GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'. GLOOMY winter's now awa', The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O! My young, my artless dearie, O! Come, my lassie, let us stray "Midst joys that never weary, 0! Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds, Siller saughs, wi' downie buds, Adorn the banks sae briery, O! Round the sylvan fairy nooks, Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O! |