The Banks of the Devon.

TUNE-" Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh."

How pleasant the banks of the clear, winding Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers blooming

fair!

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,

In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew! And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew.

Oh, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England, triumphant, display her bright rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

The Lazy Mist.

TUNE-" Here's a health to my true love."

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill, Concealing the course of the dark, winding rill! How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear, As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown, And all the gay foppery of Summer is flown : Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,

How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues!

How long I have lived-but how much lived in

vain!

How little of life's scanty span may remain!

What aspects old Time, in his progress, has worn!
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn!
How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how

pain'd!

This life's not worth having, with all it can giveFor something beyond it poor man sure must live.

Of a' the Airts the Mind can Blaw.

TUNE-" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,

For there the bonny lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :

There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And mony a hill between;

But day and night, my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair;

I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonny flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green,

There's not a bonny bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.

To Mary in Heaven.

TUNE-" Death of Captain Cook."

THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest?

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallow'd grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love!

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;

Thy image at our last embrace;

Ah little thought we 'twas 'our last!