ON WI' THE TARTAN.

HUGH AINSLIE.

Do ye like, bonnie lassie,

The hills wild and free, Where the song of the shepherd Gaurs a' ring wi' glee; Or the steep rocky glens

Where the wild falcons bide?

Then on wi' the tartan,

Do

And, fy, let us ride.

ye like the knowes, lassie, That ne'er were in riggs;

Or the bonnie lowne howes

Where the sweet robin biggs;

Or the sang of the linnet

When wooing his bride?—

Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride.

Do ye like the burn, lassie,
That loups amang linns;
Or the sunny green holms
Where it leisurely rins,
Wi' a cantie bit housie

Built snug by its side?-
Then on wi' the tartan,

And, fy, let us ride.

THE EVENING STAR.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

Star, that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free:
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou

That send'st it from above-
Appearing when heaven's breath and brow

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise;
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews!
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

THE MOON WAS A-WANING.

JAMES HOGG.

The moon was a-waning,
The tempest was over—
Fair was the maiden,

And fond was the lover;

But the snow was so deep,

That his heart it grew weary,

And he sunk down to sleep
In the moorland so dreary.

O soft was the bed

She had made for her lover,
Fu' white were the sheets,

And embroidered the cover;
But his sheets are more white,

And his canopy grander;

And sounder he sleeps

Where the hill-foxes wander.

Alas, pretty maiden,

What sorrows attend you!

I see you sit shivering

With lights at your window:

But long may you wait,

Ere your arms shall enclose him;

The moon is gleaming far and near,
The stars are streaming free,
And cold comes down the evening dew
On my sweet babe and me.
There is a time for holy song,

An hour for charm and spell,
And now's the time to bathe my
In our ladye's blessed well.

O thou wert born as fair a babe
As light ere shone aboon,
And fairer than the gowan is,

Born in the April moon:

babe

First like the lily pale ye grew,
Syne like the violet wan;
As in the sunshine dies the dew,
So faded my fair Ann.

Was it a breath of evil wind

That harm'd thee, lovely child?

Or was't the fairy's charmed touch
That all thy bloom defiled?

I've watch'd thee in the mirk midnight,
And watch'd thee in the day,
And sung our ladye's sacred song
To keep the elves away.

The moon is sitting on the hill,
The night is nigh its prime,

The owl doth chase the bearded bat,
The mark of witching time;
And o'er the seven sister stars
A silver cloud is drawn,

On a far sea thy father sails

Among the spicy isles;

He thinks on thee, and thinks on me,

And as he thinks, he smiles

And sings, while he his white sail trims,

And severs swift the sea,

About his Anna's sunny locks,

And of her bright blue e'e.