Thus they'll outwit themselves who rail
Those men for truth that bled;
But their true patriotic worth

Shall, while time rolls, be spread.

And when the last dread blast of Heaven

Shall open every tomb,

And gather all who ever lived

To hear their final doom—

When this vast world and airy space

In conflagration blaze,

All glorious crown'd, palms in their hands On high they'll sing His praise,

Whose mighty power did them uphold,
The martyr's crown to gain;
And now has fix'd their sure abode,
Beyond the reach of pain.

In that abode for aye they'll rest,
While endless space rolls on;
No tyrant's arm dare them assail,
Nor misery force a groan.

Ye well-tried Saints! now take that rest

Ye could not have when here; Yet your distress entail'd on us Sweet Liberty to wear.

Then let our sweetest harps be strung

By the most skilful hands,

To sing the truest patriots

That ever graced these lands.

The dreadful hero of the sword,
To gain some selfish end,
Delighted, sees the carnage swell,

And misery wide extend!

Not so these Saints-with their own blood

Bought freedom for this isle;

And still on Caledonia's hills

We see that freedom smile.

Shall they who held our dearest rights

From tyranny's rude gripe

Be to "unhallow'd genius" play,

And objects of its spite?

"No, no!" I hear true Scotsmen say, Our bosoms bear a flame,

Which will to ashes burn such stuff

As would obscure their fame."

THE ORPHAN GIRL.

REMEMBRANCE cease!-why thus recall
Those happy hours which once were mine?
For off they pass'd like fairy dreams,
And now in grief I lonely pine.

My brother fell in prime of youth,
As falls the blooming floweret fair,
When the untimely blast of North
Sweeps gardens, fields, and forests bare.

This was a stroke I keenly felt,

And mourn'd my loss-my brother

But yet my parents cheer'd my heart,

gone;

Which made the want of him less known.

But soon, alas! my mother dear

Wept o'er her husband's lifeless clay; Nor was this all-my mother here

Behind him had not long to stay.

1

degree of vanity, which he trusts will never be imputed to him. But he humbly conceives that he would be justly chargeable with want of respect to his readers, were he to acknowledge himself destitute of every qualification for a task which was voluntarily undertaken. It is evident he thinks his productions possess some merit, otherwise he could have had no inducement to publish them; if, however, the public should find them altogether unworthy of favour, he will humbly bow to its decision. He has found the amusement derived from the composition of them a sufficient compensation for the trouble they have cost him; and the neglect of them by the public cannot, therefore, prove a source of great disappointment.

ABERDEEN, April, 1827.