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Oh, Gilderoy? bethought we then

So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen

You triumph'd o'er my heart!

Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,

Your hunter garb was trim
And graceful was the ribbon green

That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore

These limbs in fetters bound; Or hear, upon thy scaffold floor,

The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combin'd

The guiltless to pursue ; My Gilderoy was ever kind,

He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly

Thy widow all forlorn;
When every mean and cruel eye

Regards my woe with scoin.

Yes ! they will mock thy widow's tears,

And hate thine orphan boy:
Alas! his infant beauty wears

The form of Gilderoy!

Then will I seek the dreary mound,

That wraps thy mouldering clay; And weep and linger on the ground,

And sigh my heart away.

THE HARPER.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was

nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I';
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said (while the sorrow was big at her heart), Oh! remember your Sheelah when far far away; And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly lov'd me although I was poor; When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, And he lick'd me for kindness....my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remember'd hiscase, Nor refus'd my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

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ON VISITING

A SCENE

IN ARGYLESHIRE.

At the silence of twilight's contemplative hour,

I have mused in a sorrowful mood On the wind shaken weeds, that embosom the bower,

Where the home of my forefathers stood. All ruin'd and wild is their roofless abode,

And lonely the dark raven's sheltering tree, And travelsd by few is the grass cover'd road, Where the hunter of deer and the warrior trod,

To his hills, that encircle the sea.

Yet wandering, I found, on my ruinous walk,

By the dial-stone aged and green,
One rose of the wilderness left on its stalk,

To mark where a garden had been:

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