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, Bid me awake each sadden'd morn, Bid me o'er barren deserts rove, THE MAID OF LORN. Wake, maid of Lorn, the moments fly, 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, His comrades with grief unaffected deplore, 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, 'Twas but to bless those hours of shade Joy so seldom waves a chain, Like this to day, that, oh, 'tis pain, Fly not yet, the fount had play'd And thus should woman's hearts and looks When did morning ever break, SONG OF MARION'S MEN. We know its walls of thorny vines, |