THE SAILOR'S LADY. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. Come busk you gallantlie, Maiden, busk and come, And be a sailor's lady. The foamy ocean's ours, From Hebride to Havannah, And thou shalt be my queen, See my bonnie ship, So stately and so steady; Thou shalt be my queen, And she maun be my lady: The west wind in her wings, The deep sea all in motion, Away she glorious goes, And crowns me king of ocean. The merry lads are mine, From Thames, and Tweed, and Shannon; The Bourbon flowers grow pale When I hang out my pennon; I'll win thee gold and gems, With pike and cutlass clashing, With all my broad sails set, And all my cannon flashing. Come with me and see The golden islands glowing, The flocks of India lowing: Thy chamber floor of gold, THE EXILE OF ERIN. THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ. There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, He sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh. Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, green sunny bowers Where my fore-fathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet hours, Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me, They died to defend me, or live to deplore. Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ? Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw, Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing, Land of my forefathers-Erin go Bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion, And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion Erin mavourneen, Erin go Bragh! SATURDAY'S SUN. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. O Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow; Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown frae thy e'e, Thou art fairer and dearer than ever to me. I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine On a form half so fair or a face so divine ; Thou wert woo'd in the parlour, and sought in the ha'; I came and I won thee frae the wit of them a'. My hame is my mailen, weel stocket and fu', My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I lo’'e; My wife is the gold and delight of my ee, And worth a whole lordship of mailens to me. O, who would fade away like a flower in the dew, 'MONG SCOTIA'S GLENS. JAMES HOGG. 'Mong Scotia's glens and mountains blue, Where Gallia's lilies never grew, Where Roman eagles never flew, Nor Danish lions rallied; Where skulks the roe in anxious fear, There live the lads to freedom dear, By foreign yoke neʼer galled. There woods hill; wild on every grow |