THE SOCIAL CUP.

CHARLES GRAY, ESQ.

The gloamin' saw us a' sit down,
An meikle mirth has been our fa';
But ca' the tither toast aroun',

Till chanticleer begin to craw.

The auld kirk bell has chappit twal',

Wha cares tho' she had chappit twa! We're light o' heart, an' winna part, Though time an' tide shou'd rin awa'

Tut, never speir how wears the morn,
The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky;
An' gif like her we fill our horn,

I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry.
Then fill we up a social cup,

An' never mind the dapple dawn:
Just sit a while, the sun may smile,
An' light us a' across the lawn.

T

VOL. IV.

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,

And, fy, let us ride.

Do 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.

THE EVENING STAR.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

Star, that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free:

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;

How painful the task,

The sad tidings to tell you,

An orphan you were

Ere this misery befel you;

And far in yon wild,

Where the dead tapers hover,

O cold, cold and wan

Lies the corse of

your

lover!

OUR LADYE'S BLESSED WELL.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

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 babe
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: