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The swain goes whistling to his toil;
His ruddy cheeks and body strong
Proclaim his state is happier far
Than that of Luxury's revelling throng.

The farmer, yawning, now comes forth
To view his crops, all young and green;
Minutely marks their progress fast,
And knows them fuller since yestreen.

Here, in their silent beds of death,
Repose the dead of many an age;
No jarring interests wake to strife-
No busy pursuits here engage.

Dear scenes of youth! the time is come
That I must bid you all adieu;

But though I to a distance go,
My fancy oft shall paint your view.

Acquaintances, and friends-farewell!
I know you'll think on me when gone;
Unto your bosoms friendship's flame
In all its softest glows is known.

Like brethren you together live,
In unity and sweet accord;

If any should his neighbour rail,
He by the rest would be abhorr❜d.

Sooner shall Ythan stream stand rock,
And Horror's rock* run in its place,
Than you see calumny and spite
Unto your circles be disgrace.

Then fare ye well! I must begone,
And leave you, and my native dear ;--
But what among you I have seen
Nought from my memory shall tear.

* Horror is a wild banging rock, in the brae opposite to the ruins of Gight Castle. At the top of the rock there is the entrance of a cave, where, in olden times,

"Coffins stood round, like open presses,

That show'd the dead in their last dresses ;"

and where, even yet,

"Ghaists and houlets nightly cry."

LINES.

O, WHAT a silly creature's man!
How little does his reason scan!
For silver grey, or yellow gold,
life is often sold.

His

very

For these he'll cross the mountain wave,
And ardent suns in Afric brave;
Or shiver in the frigid zone,

Where summer's warmth is never known.
More-human kind must be his prey

In slavery's chains; without a ray
Of pity from his frozen breast,

His brother's used worse than a beast.
Thus he runs on in dread career,

Nor thinks of ought he has to fear,
Till death-of man, terrific foe-

Strike him his awful final blow!

What serves the wealth for which he toil'd?

From it, for aye, he is exiled.

LINES,

TO A LADY.

How dull and dreary was the day
On which from us you went away!
I sat and heard the ebb of time
From the dull steeple's drowsy chime;
The lazy hours scarce moved along,
I felt no pleasure in a song.

The sounds which oft before had pleased,
My melancholy but increased;

And when at last the evening came,
I tried to touch some merry theme,
Thereby my downcast heart to raise,
And give my troubled spirit ease;
But all was vain: these would not do,

I found my peace had gone with
you wish to cure my pain,

So if
You'll quickly back return again.

you ;

ANNA.

WITHIN Yon time-worn mossy walls,
The most endearing creature dwells,
That ever Nature's powers gave birth,
To beautify our parent earth.

The modest rose is sweet to view,
When gilded rich with early dew;
But Anna's cheeks are far more fair,
Her eyes outshine the diamond's glare;
Yet she declines the admiring gaze,
From none but me she covets praise.
If sorrow through my vitals pry,
The big tear trembles in her eye.
I haste to clasp her in my arms,
My anguish dares not meet her charms;
And when I hold her in embrace,

Care flies like ghosts from morning's chase.
How dear to hold her to my breast,
And hear her blushing love confest!
Unfeeling souls may scoff at this,
Who never knew such raptured bliss;
But give to me my Anna dear,

I'll live in love, and let them jeer.

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