A breath, a touch like this has shaken! And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds,-or like the stream, That, smiling, left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever Yet, ere it reached the plain below,

Breaks into floods that part forever. O you, that have the charge of Love, Keep him in rosy bondage bound,

As in the fields of bliss above

He sits, with flowerets fettered round;Loose not a tie that round him clings, Nor ever let him use his wings; For even an hour, a minute's flight Will rob the plumes of half their light. Like that celestial bird,-whose nest Is found beneath far Eastern skies,Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, Lose all their glory when he flies!

-Thomas Moore.

'HE sun has gane down o'er the lofty Ben Lomond, While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin', To muse on sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom And sweet is the birk wi' its mantle o' green. Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane. She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie,For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;

[blane.

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,
Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet Flower o' Dum-
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening!-
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood Glen:
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the Flower o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!

The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie [blane. Till charmed wi' sweet Jessie, the Flower o' Dum

ILL Hymen brought his love-delighted hour,
There dwelt no joy in Eden's rosy power;

The world was sad, the garden was a wild,

and man, the hermit, sighed, till woman smiled.

HAIL

AIL, woman! Hail, thou faithful wife and mother, The latest, choicest part of Heaven's great plan! None fills thy peerless place at home; no other Helpmeet is found for laboring, suffering man.

D

UNCAN GRAY cam' here to woo

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

On blythe Yule night when we were fou-
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Maggie coost her head fu' high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh-

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Duncan fleeched and Duncan prayed-
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig-

Ha, ha the wooing o't!
Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn-

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Time and chance are but a tide

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Slighted love is sair to bide

Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Shall I, like a fool. quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may gae to-France for me!
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

How it comes let doctors tell-
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!
Meg grew sick as he grew heal-
Ha, ha the wooing o't!
Something in her bosom wrings-
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O, her een they speak sic things!
Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

Duncan was a lad o' grace

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Maggie's was a piteous case

Ha, ha! the wooing o't! Duncan could na be her death: Swelling pity smoored his wrath. Now they're crouse and canty baith, Ha, ha! the wooing o't!

-Robert Burns.

H! then they come flattering,

OH

Soft nonsense chattering,

Praising your pickling,

Playing at tickling,

Love verses writing,
Acrostics inditing,

If your finger aches, fretting,
Fondling and petting,
"My loving"-"my doving,"
"Petseying, "-"wetseying,"
Now sighing, now dying,
Now dear diamonds buying,

Or yards of chantilly, like a great big silly,
Cashmere shawls-brandy balls,
Oranges, apples,-gloves Gros de Naples,
Sweet pretty "skuggies"-ugly pet puggies;
Now with an earring themselves endearing,
Or squandering guineas upon Sevignes,
Now fingers squeezing, or playfully teasing,
Bringing you bull's eyes, casting you sheep's eyes,
Looking in faces while working braces,

Never once heeding what they are reading;
But soiling one's hose by pressing one's toes;

Or else so zealous, and nice and jealous of all the fellows,
Darting fierce glances if ever one dances with a son of
France's;

Or finding great faults, or threatening assaults whenever you "valtz;'

Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen, if you romp

with your cousin;

Continually stopping, when out a shopping, and bank notes dropping,

Not seeking to win money, calling it “tin" money, and promising pin money;

Like picnics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham, and champagne to quicken 'em; Detesting one's walking without John too goes stalking, to prevent the men talking;

Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat “greens," and hate crinolines;

Or heaping caresses, if you curl your black tresses, or

wear low-neck'd dresses;

Or when up the river, almost sure to diskiver that beats all to shiver, the sweet Guadalquiver; Or seeing death-fetches if the toothache one catches, making picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches;

Or with loud double knocks brings from Eber's a box to see "Box and Cox," or pilfer one's locks to mark their new stocks;

Or whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow they'll be swinging, or in Serpentine springing, unless to them clinging, you'll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their linen.

Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on before marriage.

OH

H! then nothing pleases 'em but everything teases 'em,

Then they're grumbling and snarling-you're a "fool," not a "darling;"

Though they're rich as the Ingies, they're the stingiest

of stingies;

And what is so funny, they've never got money,
Only ask 'em for any, and they haven't a penny;
But what passes all bounds, on themselves they'll spend
pounds-

Give five guineas for lunch off real turtle and punch; Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things about;

Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery;
Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing;
Storming and raging past all assuaging.
Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous,

To hear the door slam to, to be called simple ma'am too;
(I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve Madam;)
As a matter of course they'll have a divorce;

Or "my Lord Duke" intends to send you home to your friends

And allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter;

Though you strive with all your might you can do nothing right;

While the maids-the old song-can do nothing wrong. "Every shirt wants a button!" Every day they've cold mutton;

They're always a flurrying one, or else they're hurrying one, or else they're worrying one;

Threatening to smother your dear sainted mother or kick your big brother;

After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings-why "the house is in ruins!"

Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help, thinking you've taken to drinking;

They're perpetually rows keeping 'cause out of the housekeeping they're in bonnets their spouse keeping;

So when they've been meated, if with pies they are not treated, they vow they are cheated!

Then against Ascot Races and all such sweet places they set their old faces;

And they'll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with b le you are quite brown;

For their wife they unwilling are, after billing and cooing her, to stand a cap from the milliner-e'en a paltry twelve shillinger;

And it gives them the vapors to witness the capers of these bowers and scrapers, the young linen drapers;

Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children's clothes;

Though you strive and endeavor, they're so mightily

clever, that please them you'll never, till you leave
them forever yes! the hundredth time sever-"for
ever-AND EVER!"

Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage,
But this is the way they go on after marriage.

WHEN we two parted

WH

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss:

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this!-Lord Byron,