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But a lovelier prospect appears to the view,
AE FOND KISS.
* This song, by Mr. William M•LAREN, Paisley, author of the valuable sketch of the life of Tannahill, from which we have made such copious extracts in our first volume, we judge will not prove unacceptable to the lovers of true poetry. It abounds with beautiful and original allusions to natural objects, which are never associated in our minds without feelings of interest and
easure. It is certainly worthy of the friend of TANNAHILL.
P'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,
THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. “Dear land of my birth, of my friends, of my love!
Shall I never again climb thy mountains?
To listen the dash of thy fountains ?
That darkens 'mid warfare and danger? Ah, no! for I feel that my last heaving sigh
Must fleet on the gale of the stranger! “ Then farewell ye valleys-ye fresh blooming bow'rs,
Of childhood the once-happy dwelling;
For death at my bosom is knelling;
To mark where a freeman is sleeping;
While the Arab his night-watch is keeping.”
'Twas a soldier who spoke—but his voice now is gone,
And lowly the hero is lying; No sound meets the ear, save the crocodile's moan,
Or the breeze through the palm-tree sighing.
By the wilderness heavily pacing,
And his monument ne'er know defacing.
NOW SPRING AGAIN.
TUNE_" The boatie rows."
'Mang Bernard's bow'rs is seen;
True emblem o' my Jean.
An' storms nae mair do blaw,
When love is far awa.
How swift the langest night flees by
When twa fond lovers meet,
Together mingle sweet!
When forc'd at duty's ca';
Whase love is far awa.
The moon shines clearer i' the lift,
The breeze mair gentle sighs,
If warm’d by beauty's eyes.
THE MAID OF ISLAY.
Evening gilds the ocean's swell,
Solitude! I love to dwell.
Oft I chaunt my love-lorn strain,
Murmur oft a lover's pain.
* Although these two highly beautiful songs, by a Mr. James Frazer of Edinburgh, were received at an early period of this work, by some unaccountable accident they have hitherto slipt aside. We would have been extremely sorry to have been deficient in our duty to the public and the author, in not giving them a place, as we judge them inferior to few pieces in this or any other collection. They contain the most flattering proofs of a highly endowed poetical genius, which we would be happy to See assiduously cultivated, and encouraged.
'Twas for her, the maid of Islay,
Time flew o'er me wing'd with joy;
Beam'd with rapture in my eye.
Lightning's flash, or thunder's roll,
While her image fillid my soul.
Long your loss my heart shall mourn!
Bliss that never can return. .
Cheerless o'er the wave-worn shore,
Hope's fair visions charm no more.
SWEET MAID, ON THY CHEEK. Sweet maid, on thy cheek there's a red rosy blush,
From thine eye beams the peace of the dove, I own'd their keen pow'r ’neath yon sweet birken bush,
When I sigh'd out the ag'nies of love. O enter this sweet sylvan shade,
Where no cares shall intrude on our bliss, . Where blushing, yet yielding, dear maid,
Let me seal each fond vow with a kiss. A sweet nuptial morn soon shall smile on our loves,
And add to our joys new delight; The birds in blyth concert shall sing in the grove,
A sweet prelude to the joys of the night. Then sweet raptures our hours shall employ,
While I lean on thy fond beating heart; For sweetest, and dearest's the joy
That the conjugal life can impart.