Sure Scotland will be Scotland still, While hearts so brave defend her. Fear not, our sov'reign liege, they cry, We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye; For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die, Nor aught but life surrender.

Since thou hast watch'd our every need,
And taught our navies wide to spread,
The smallest hair from thy gray head
No foreign foe shall sever:
Thy honour'd age in peace to save,
The sternest host we'll dauntless brave,
Or stem the fiercest Indian wave,
Nor heart nor hand shall waver.

Though nations join yon tyrant's arm,
While Scotia's noble blood runs warm
Our good old man we'll guard from harm,
Or fall in heaps around him.
Although the Irish harp were won,

And England's roses all o'er-run,

'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and gun,

We'll form a bulwark round him.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Why weep ye by the tide, ladye-
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride;
And ye shall be his bride, ladye,
Sae comely to be seen—

But

ay she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

Now let this wilful grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale,
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale:
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen

But she loot the tears down fa' ay

For Jock of Hazeldean.

A chain of gold ye shall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you the foremost of them a',
Shall ride our forest queen—

But ay

she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair,

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And knight and dame are there:
They sought her both by bower and ha',

The ladye was not seen―
She's o'er the border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

THE HAMEWARD SONG.

HUGH AINSLIE.

Each whirl of the wheel,

Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth-
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,

VOL. IV.

And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glowre in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.

E'en the brutes they look social

As gif they would crack,
And the sang of the bird

Seems to welcome me back.
O, dear to our hearts

Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land

And the cottage that bred us.

And dear are the comrades

With whom we once sported,

And dearer the maiden

Whose love we first courted:

Joy's image may perish,

E'en grief die away,

But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for ay.

AWAKE, MY LOVE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Awake, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs;

Or birds upon the boughs awake,

Till

green Arbigland's woodlands shake!

She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon,
And from her home by Preston burn

Came forth, the rival light of morn.

The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now hush—
The gold-spink answered from the bush--
The plover, fed on heather crop,

Call'd from the misty mountain top.

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery grey,

To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake-
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon caroling lark?

Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue

The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love-
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.