Swifter still the dawn advances,

In the light the wood-fly dances;
See, the sun is on the billow-

Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow!

Wake thee-life is but a day,

Gay its morn, and short as gay;
Day of evil-day of sorrow,

Hope, bright hope, can paint no morrow;

Noon shall find thee faint and weary,
Night shall find thee pale and dreary-
Rise, O rise to toil betake thee-

Wake thee, drowsy slumberer, wake thee.

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Cauld winter is awa', my love,

And spring is in her prime;
The breath of Heaven stirs a' to life,
The grasshoppers to chime.
The birds canna contain themsel's

Upon the sprouting tree,
But loudlie, loudlie sing of love:

A theme which pleaseth me.

The blackbird is a pawky loon,
An' kens the gate of love;
Fu' weel the sleekit mavis kens
The melting lilt maun move.
The gowdspink woos in gentle note,

And ever singeth he,

Come here, come here, my spousal dame !—

A theme which pleaseth me.

What

says the sangster rose-linnet?

His breast is beating high,

Come here, come here, my ruddie mate, way of love to try!

The

The lavrock calls his freckled mate,

Frae near the sun's ee-bree,

Make on the knowe, our nest, my love!

A theme which pleaseth me.

The hares hae brought forth twins, my love,

Sae has the cushat doo;

The raven croaks a softer way,

His sooty love to woo:

And nought but love, love breathes around

Frae hedge, frae field, and tree,

Soft whispering love to Jeanie's heart:

A theme which pleaseth me.

O lassie is thy heart mair hard
Than mavis on the bough;

Say, maun the hale creation wed,

And Jean remain to woo?

Say, has the holie lowe of love
Ne'er lighten'd in your ee?
O! if thou canstna feel for pain,
Thou art nae theme for me!

THE BLACK COCK.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek ;
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee slily cowering through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things, to light of day
Look shortly forth and shrink away.

A fleeting moment of delight
I sunn'd me in her cheering sight;
And short, I ween, the term will be
That I shall parley hold with thee.
Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day,
The climbing herd-boy chants his lay;
The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring-
Thou art already on the wing.

THE WOUNDED HUSSAR.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
O whither, she cried, hast thou wander'd, my true love,
Or here dost thou welter and bleed on the shore?
What voice have I heard? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd:
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding and low, on the heath, she descried,

By the light of the moon, her poor wounded Hussar.

From his bosom that heaved, the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage, deep mark'd with a scar, And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming,

That melted in love, and that kindled in war.

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.