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THERE was a pretty plough-boy,

A plougbing of his land,
Made his horses stand under a shade,

While he sang so sweet and shrill,

That each valley, wood, and hill,
Rung back the choral-melody:—Sweet maid!

Pretty maid!
Breezy zephyr caught the echo, Pretty maid!

By the streamlet's dimpling bosom,

Sat the plough-boy's blooming fair;
As his song floated up through the glade,

While she caught the cheering sound,

By young echo trill'd around, And bade her whisper down the dell, “ Your maid!

Pretty maid! Soon will meet you by the fountain in the shade.”



In Flora's train the


And chase rude winter from the plain;
As on she roves, the wild flowers spring,
And welcome summer back again:

Spring dances o'er the plain,
Flowering all the woodland scene;

Then join with me, my lovely May,
To welcome summer back again.



The budding wild will soon perfume

The air, when balm'd by April's rain,
'Mong banks clad o'er wi' waving broom,
We'll welcome summer back again :

In yon sequester'd scene,
The mavis sings his cheerful strain,

And there we'll meet, my lovely May,
To welcome summer back again.

When yellow cowslips scent the mead,

Then gladness o'er the plains will reign,
And soon, my love! we'll pu' the flowers,
And welcome summer back again:

Spring dances o'er the plain,
Flowering all the woodland scene,

With blooming garlands in her train,
To welcome summer back again.


Though winter o'er the hills and glens,

In dreary wreathes reposes;
Though lone and hoary droops the briar,

So late clad o'er with roses :
Yet soon the lovely days of spring

Will leaf the bending grove;
Then soft the breeze will fan the air,

And all will breathe of love.

I sat within the holly's shade,

Bright winter's sun shone o'er me;
Glancing upon the ice-bound rill,

That mirror'd lay before me:
No summer scene can soothe the breast,

Like winter in her prime;
So virgin pure, her mantle floats

Like vestal's at the shrine.

Awakening with the blackbird's call,

The drooping snow-drop's blowing; The cowslip, and the violets blue,

On the gale their sweet breaths are strewing: Oh it is sweet in glen or grove,

To watch young spring's return, On wind-flower bank, or crocus bed,

Where the murmuring waters run.


See the glow-worm lits her fairy lamp,

From a beam of the rising moon; On the heathy shore at evening fall,

Twixt Holy-Loch, and dark Dunoon: Her fairy lamp’s pale silvery glare,

From the dew-clad, moorland flower, Invite my wandering footsteps there,

At the lonely twilight hour.

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When the distant beacon's revolving light

Bids my lone steps seek the shore,
There the rush of the flow-tide's rippling wave

Meets the dash of the fisher's oar;
And the dim-seen steam-boat's hollow sound,

As she sea-ward tracks her way;
All else are asleep in the still calm night,

And robed in the misty gray.

When the glow-worm lits her elfin lamp,

And the night breeze sweeps the hill;
It's sweet, on thy rock-bound shores, Dunoon,

To wander at fancy's will.
Eliza! with thee, in this solitude,

Life's cares would pass away,
Like the fleecy clouds over gray Kilmun,

At the wake of early day.

The Glow-worm (Lampyris Noctiluca) on mild summer evenings, especially after a shower of rain, are to be found in great abundance among the long grass and moss between Dunoon and the Holy-Loch, where the surrounding scenery renders this singular insect doubly interesting. The female is larger than the male, and emits a beautiful light (apparently phosphorescent, but not really so), for the purpose of attracting the male; this issues from the four last rings of the abdomen: the male has a power of emitting a feeble light, but very disproportionate to that of the female. Two or three of these insects inclosed in a glass vase, will give a light sufficient to enable a person to read in the darkest night. There are fifty-two species of this insect scattered over the four quarters of the globe, of which two only are found in our own country, viz. the Glow-worm and the Fire-fly.


Let us haste Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie,
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O,

Where the rose in all her pride,

Paints the hollow dingle side, Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O.

Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O,
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, 0,

Where the glens rebound the call,

Of the roaring waters' fall, Through the mountain's rocky ball, bonnie lassie, 0.

O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, 0,
When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O,

There, the May-pink's crimson plume,

Throws a soft, but sweet perfume, Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O.

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O, As the smile of fortune's thine, bonnie lassie, 0,

Yet with fortune on my side,

I could stay thy father's pride,
And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, 0.

But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O,
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O,

Ere yon golden orb of day

Wake the warblers on the spray,
From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, 0.

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