John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent,

Your locks were like the raven, your bonny brow was brent;

But now your head's turn'd bauld, John, your locks are like the snow,

My blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first

conceit,

I think nae shame to own, John, I lov'd ye ear' and late;

They say ye're turning auld John, and what though it be so,

Ye're aye the same kind man to me, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our bairns bairns,

And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms;

And sae are ye in mine, John, I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no,

Tho' the days are gane that we hae seen, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,

And mony a cantie day. John, we've had wi' ane' anither,

Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go,

And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson,

my jo.

BID ME THE ILLS OF LIFE ENDURE.

Bid me the ills of life endure,
Ills that will rend my heart;
Bid me resign the hope of cure,
And cherish endless smart;
Bid me a weary wanderer be,
But never bid me part from thee.
Bid me encounter vulgar scorn,
And hopeless of relief,

Bid me awake each sadden'd morn,
To feed the source of grief:
Bid me from pomp and splendour flee,
But never bid me part from thee.

Bid me o'er barren deserts rove,
O'er mountains rude and bare,
Bid me the keenest torments prove,
That feeling bosoms share;
Bid me no dawn of comfort see,
But never bid me part from thee.

THE MAID OF LORN.

Wake, maid of Lorn, the moments fly,
Which yet that maiden name allow :
Wake, maiden, wake-the hour is nigh,
When love shall claim a plighted vow.
By fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest,
By hope that soon shall fears remove,
We, bid thee break the bonds of rest,
And wake thee, at the call of love.

26

THE SOLDIER'S WIFE.

Upon the hill he turned, to take a last fond look Of the valley and the village church, and the cottage by the brook;

He listen❜d to the sounds, so familiar to his ear, And the soldier leant upon his sword, and wiped away a tear.

Beside that cottage porch a girl was on her knees, She held aloft a snowy scarf which flutter'd in the breeze;

She breath'd a prayer for him, a prayer he could not hear,

But he paus'd to bless her as she knelt, and wip'd away a tear.

He turn'd and left the spot-oh! do not deem him weak,

For dauntless was the soldier's heart, though tears were on his cheek;

Go watch the foremost ranks in dangers dark ca

reer,

Be sure the hand most daring there, has wiped away a tear.

DEATH OF ABERCROMBIE.

'Twas on the spot in ancient lore oft named, Where Isis and Osiris once held sway,

O'er kings who sleep in pyramidic pride; But now for British valour far more fam'd, Since Nelson's hand achieved a glorious day, And, crown'd with laurel, Abercrombie died.

AIR.

Her roseate colours the dawn did shed

O'er the field which stern slaughter had tinted to red;

'Twas dark, save the flash at the cannon's hoarse sound,

When the brave Abercrombie received his death

wound;

His comrades with grief unaffected deplore, Though to Britain's renown he gave one laurel

more.

With a mind unsubdu'd still the foe he defy'd,
On the steed which the hero of Acre supply'd:
Till, feeling he soon to fate's summons must yield,
He gave Sidney the sword he no longer could
wield!

His comrades with grief unaffected deplore,
Though to Britain's renown he gave one laurel

more.

The standard of Albion with victory crown'd Wav'd o'er his head as he sank on the ground; Take me hence my brave comrades, the veteran

did cry,

My duty's complete, and contented I die.

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet,-'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower,
That scorns the eye of vulgar light
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.

'Twas but to bless those hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made,
'Tis then the soft attractions glowing,
Set the tides and goblets flowing,
Oh stay, oh stay,

Joy so seldom waves a chain,

Like this to day, that, oh, 'tis pain,
To break the link so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount had play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like sons of mirth, began,
To burn when night was near.

And thus should woman's hearts and looks
At noon be cold as wintry brooks,
Nor kindle till the night returning,
Brings the genial hour for burning,
Oh stay, oh stay

When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake,
As those which sparkle here.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
Our band is few, but true and tried-
Our leader frank and bold;
The foeman trembles in his camp,
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good green wood,
Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea;

We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of ready grass,