How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight!

How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war!

Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of thy wounded Hussar?

Thou shalt live, she replied: Heaven's mercy relieving
Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn.
Ah! no, the last pang in my bosom is heaving;
No light of the morn shall to Henry return:
Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true!

Ye babes of my love, that await me afar !—
His faltering tongue scarce could murmur, Adieu !
When he sank in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar.

ROLAND CHEYNE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

The sun upon a summer morn,
The dark cloud when it snows,

The woods all in their fragrant leaves,
The green grass as it grows,
Are fair to see-yet fairer far

Seems ocean's simmering brine,

Through which comes sailing thy good ship,
My gallant Roland Cheyne.

I saw the gloomy ocean laugh,
As suns laugh in April;

I saw thy canvas catch the breeze
With more of sigh than smile.
And, Oh! my heart leap'd like to burst

My silken laces nine,

As I lost sight of thy good ship,

My gallant Roland Cheyne.

All by the salt sea-wave I sat―
And as its snowy foam

Sang at my foot, I sigh'd, and said,

O when wilt thou come home!
Brown are the giddy dames of France,
And swarthy those of Spain;
Old Scotland's maids are lily white-
Return, my Roland Cheyne.

THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

MRS. DUGALD STEWART.

The tears I shed must ever fall,
I mourn not for an absent swain ;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.

I

weep not for the silent dead,

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er ;

And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb:
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears

Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy ;

The flatt'ring veil is rent aside ;

The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew

The hours once ting'd in transport's dye;

The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the past to agony.

E'en time itself despairs to cure

Those pangs to ev'ry feeling due;

Ungenerous youth! thy boast how poor,

To win a heart-and break it too.

No cold approach, no alter'd mien, Just what would make suspicion start; pause the dire extremes between,

No

He made me blest-and broke my heart. From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn, Neglected and neglecting all; Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall.

THE HILLS O' GALLOWA'.

THOMAS CUNNINGHAM.

Amang the birks sae blythe an' gay,
Julia hameward gaun;

I met my
The linties chauntit on the spray,

The lammies loupit on the lawn;
On ilka howm the sward was mawn,
The braes wi' gowans buskit bra',
An gloamin's plaid o' gray was thrawn
Out owre the hills o' Gallowa'.

Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,

An' fragrance wing'd alang the lea,

As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,

An' saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawin coost a glimmerin e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.

It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,
It isna goud, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad hae, quoth I,

The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer

But gie to me my

Ye

Julia dear,

wha rowe powers

this yirthen ba',

An' O! sae blythe thro' life I'll steer,
Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill,

An' our gudeman ca's hame the yowes, Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill

That owre the muir meand'ring rowes; Or tint amang the Scroggy knowes, My birken pipe I'll sweetly blaw,

An' sing the streams, the straths, and howes, The hills an' dales o' Gallowa'.

An' whan auld Scotland's heathy hills,
Her rural nymphs an' jovial swains,
Her flow'ry wilds an' wimpling rills,

Awake nae mair my canty strains ;