Sonnet.

And here forget he was design'd

To mortal tread earth's humble sphere-
All hail! my muse, thou charmer dear,
(Loved guardian of my rustic song,)
With fancy's eye I view thee here,
The stream or forest skip along.

Here, might misfortune find relief

From recollection's painful throes,
Or thoughtful, melancholy grief,
Might here attain enjoy'd repose.
Here angels might to man disclose
The secrets of their blest abode,
And through this fleeting scene of woes,
Point to the great Rewarder-God.

Song.

When ah! return'd with fortune's store,
My love was gone, laid in her tomb.

Glasgow, 17th November, 1819.

SONG.

ADDRESSED TO MISS M***

Low sunk the sun to the bed of the ocean,

And light danc'd the breeze on the blue rolling wave All nature was hush'd-not the softest emotion,

Was heard to disturb the repose of the grave.
The moon's silver light on the landscape is sleeping,
As cloudless she sails thro' the depths of the sky;
All bath'd in soft dew, every flowret is weeping,

And wails for poor Mary, who wanders to sigh.—

Her eye, once as bright as the beam of the morning,
The chill blast of sorrow had dimmed with a tear ;
Her cheek, once the blush of the rosebud adorning,

Seem'd pale as the lily, the last of the year:
How soon were the visions, her fancy had cherish'd,
By the dark lowering storm of misfortune laid low!
In the grave of her sire, her latest hope perish'd,
And left her to mourn, the fair victim of woe..

The landscape grows dim and the moon is retiring,
To quench her pale gleam in the brine of the deep;
As the last fading gleam of her lamp is expiring,

Poor Mary still lingers to wail and to weep.
Her dark withered form, the night-breeze is chilling,
And the last bursting throes of keen anguish depart;
The cold damp of death o'er her bosom is stealing,

To freeze the warm blood, as it streams from her heart..

Oh! weep not, poor Mary, for soon shall thy sorrow,
Be hushed in the lonely repose of the tomb

The Thistle.

To cheer thy sad bosom, no sun of to-morrow

Shall lend his bright beams, and enlighten the gloom :
Oh! soon shall the dark-spreading cypress wave o'er thee!
And evening's mild eye drop its tears on thy breast;
But oft shall the sigh of pure Friendship deplore thee,
And the sweet tones of Pity shall hush thee to rest.

Let the Lily of France in luxuriance bloom,
And the Shamrock of Erin its beauty maintain,
Let the Rose of fair England still waft its perfume,
The Thistle of Scotia will dearest remain.

To Scotia her Thistle,

Her broad waving Thistle,

The evergreen Thistle, will dearest remain.

Twas the badge that our fathers triumphantly wore,
When they foliowed their sovereigns to vanquish the Dane;
The emblem our Wallace in battle aye bore-

Then the Thistle of Scotland must dearest remain.

To Scotia her Thistle, &c.

It blooms on the mountain, it blooms in the vale,
It blcoins in the winter, in snow and in rain,
The type of her sons when rude seasons assail,
To Scotia her Thistle will dearest remain.

To Scotia her Thistle, &c.

How many brave warriors our Thistle may claim,
How many survive and how many are slain,

Verses.

We weep for our Moore, and exult in our Graeme,
For to us the broad Thistle will dearest remain.

To us the broad Thistle,

The evergreen Thistle,

The broad waving Thistle must dearest remain:

November 12th, 1819.

E J. D

VERSES.

Now June is present with her mantle gay, And Nature all her joyous robes display, She thus address'd a youth deep sunk in thought, Regardless of the charms her beauty brought; "Be cheerful, said she, why wilt thou be sad, "When nature all around thee seems so glad, "When in my presence all is fresh and green, "And where smile no sorrow there is seen. "Why dost thou thus 'gainst nature's law transgress, "And spend thy days in dreary thoughtfulness; "Hath fortune with her partial ruling sway, "Refused to aid thee through life's troubled way, "Or health fled from thee, with her blessful train: "Say what it is that makes thee thus complain." 'Tis not thy presence though with beauty bless'd, That can bring joys into my troubled breast. Fortune may go, and favour whom she will, Her absence ne'er my peace of mind can kill. Of health, that beauteous nymph, I am possessed, But ah! a nymph more fair destroy'd my rest. A nymph of beauteous form, and virtuous mind, Hath stole my cheerfulness and peace of mind; But could I gain the heart of her I love, Then from me melancholy would be drove. June, 1819.

B

Scrapiana Poetica.

SCRAPIANA POETICA.

And without G the Graces would run ra- Who is it," Gentle Reader," who,