The far-resounding gate; the. kite's shrill scream;
The distant ploughman's halloo to his team.
This is the chorus to my soul so dear;

It would delight thee too, wert thou but here:
For we might talk of home, and muse o'er days
Of sad distress, and Heaven's mysterious ways;
Our checkered fortunes with a smile retrace,
And build new hopes upon our infant race:
Pour our thanksgivings forth, and weep the while;
Or pray for blessings on our native isle.

But vain the wish! Mary, thy sighs forbear,

Nor grudge the pleasures which thou canst not share:
Make home delightful, kindly wish for me,

And I'll leave hills, and dales, and woods for thee. WHITTLEBURY FOREST, Sept. 16, 1804.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

1784-1842.

["Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song." 1810.]

BONNIE LADY ANN.

THERE'S kames o' honey 'tween my luve's lips,

An' gold amang her hair,

Her breasts are lapt in a holie veil,

Nae mortal een look there.

What lips dare kiss, or what hand dare touch,
Or what arm o' luve dare span,

The honey lips, the creamy palm,
Or the waist o' Lady Ann!

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,

Maun touch her Lady mou.

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gold,

Her jimpy waist maun span;

O she's an armfu' fit for heaven,

My bonnie Lady Ann!

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,

Tied up wi' silver thread,

An' comely sits she in the midst,

Men's longing cen to feed.

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,

Wi' her milky, milky han',

An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger o' God,
My bonnie Lady Ann!

The morning cloud is tassell'd wi' gold,
Like my luve's broider'd cap,

An' on the mantle which my luve wears
Is monie a golden drap.

Her bonnie eebrow's a holie arch

Cast by no earthlie han';

An' the breath o' Heaven's atween the lips

O' my bonnie Lady Ann!

I am her father's gardener lad,

An' poor, poor is my fa';

My auld mither gets my sair-won fee,
Wi' fatherless bairnies twa.

My een are bauld, they dwall on a place
Where I darena mint my han';

But I water, and tend, and kiss the flowers
O' my bonnie Lady Ann.

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

"This rural beauty, who caused such terrible devastation, and who, it is said, first made a poet of her lover, became afterwards his wife; and in her matronly character, she inspired that beautiful little effusion of conjugal tenderness, 'THE POET'S BRIDAL SONG.' When first published, it was almost universally copied, and committed to memory; and Allan Cunningham may not only boast that he has woven a wreath to 'grace his Jean,'

'While rivers flow and woods are green,'

but that he has given the sweet wife, seated among her children in sedate and matronly loveliness, an interest even beyond that which belongs to the young girl he has described with raven locks and checks of cream, driving rustic admirers to despair, or lingering with her love at eve,

'Amid the falling dew

When looks were fond, and words were few!'

Such is the charm of affection, and truth, and moral feeling, carried straight into the heart by poetry!” MRS. JAMESON'S LOVES OF THE POETS.

O, my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dreamed in vain,
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To sober joys and soften woes,

Can make my heart or fancy flee

One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit,
Fair, gentle as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;

Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee

As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon

Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or lingered 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;

And time, and care, and birth-time woes

Have dimmed thine eye, and touched thy rose,

To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong

All that charms me of tale or song;

When words come down like dews unsought,

With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,

And fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold;

v svet to it and poder se

What things ball back car innble bower!
Ive sweet to pull in bage with thee
The willen the Fortune's tree;
And wester w dose and swine
A hand Se these boks of thine.
Ascowreath will my gave my Jean,
Wille rivers 2x and vols are green.

At times there ecce as ecce there ought
Grave moments of seater thought
When Fortune fo was por len is our night
One gleam of her in vnstant Night:

And Hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower,
O, then I see, wille seated nih.

A mother's heart shine in thine eye.

And proad resolve and purpose meek, Speak of thee more than words can speak:

I think this wedded wife of mine

The best of all that's not divine.