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CASTLE GORDON,

STREAMS that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands ;
These, their richly-gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves ; ;
Give me the stream that sweetly lave

The banks by Castle Gordon,

Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil :
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave,
Give me the groves that lofty brave

The storus by Caştle Gordon
Wildly here without controul,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,
She plants the forest, pours the flood;
Life's poor day I'll musing, rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,

By bonje Castle Gordon. VOL. II-Ö

AFTON WATER. Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the

glen, Ye wild-whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild ev’ning weeps over the lea, The sweet scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Aston, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides : How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gath'ring sweet flow'rets, she stems thy clear

wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, T'low gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;

Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, egoritty, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

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THE SACRED VOW.

Tune" Allan Water."

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,

While Phoebus sank below Benleddi* ;
The winds were whisp'ring through the grove,

The yellow corn was waving ready :

I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures monie; And ay the wild-wood echoes rang

0, dearly do I love thee, Annie?

0, happy be the woodbine bower,

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!

Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, " I'm thine for ever!"?
While monie a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever,

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,

The simmerjoys the flocks to follow ;
How cheery through her shortening day,

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow;

* A mountain west of Strath-Allan, 3,009 feet is

But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or thro' each nerve the rapture dart,

Like meeting her our bosom's treasure ?

THE RIGS O' BARLEY.

T'une" Corn rigs are bonie."

It was upon a Lammas night,

When corn rigs are bonie,
Beneath the moons unclouded light,

I held awa to Annie:
The time flew by wi' tentless heed,

Till 'tween the late and early;
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed,

To see me through the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,

The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down wi' right good will, with

Amang the rigs o'barley:
I kent her heart was a' my ain; 3.3

I lov'd her most sincerely; it!
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace;

Her heart was beating rarely: My blessings on that happy place,

Amang the rigs o' barley! But by the moon and stars so bright,

That shone that hour so clearly She ay shall bless that happy night,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blythe wi' comra des dear;

I hae been merry drinkin;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;

I hae been happy thinkin:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Tho' three times doubled fairly, That happy night was worth them a',

Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,

Corn rigs are bonie;
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,

Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

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