Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep bending in the pool,
Their shadows' watery bed!

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn;

And, for the little songster's nest,
The close embowering thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honoured native land!

So may, through Albion's farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,

The grace be "Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonny lasses!"

VERSES

WRITTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS

NEAR LOCH NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods, The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods;

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream resounds.

As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below;

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends.

Dim seen, through rising mists and ceaseless

showers,

The hoary cavern wide surrounding, lowers;
Still through the gap the struggling river toils,
And still below, the horrid caldron boils

STR

CASTLE-GORDON.

TREAMS that glide in Orient plains,
Never bound by Winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commixed with foulest stains,
From tyranny's empurpled bands;
These, their richly-gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Helpless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil;
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave;
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle-Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,

Nature reigns and rules the whole;

In that sober, pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood.
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonny Castle-Gordon.

THE BONNY LASS OF ALBANY.

MY

TUNE- Mary's Dream.

Y heart is wae, and unco wae,
To think upon the raging sea,
That roars between her gardens green
And the bonny Lass of Albany.

This lovely maid's of royal blood
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three,
But oh, alas! for her bonny face,
They've wranged the Lass of Albany.

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of high degree,
And a town of fame whose princely name
Should grace the Lass of Albany.

But there's a youth, a witless youth,

That fills the place where she should be; We'll send him o'er to his native shore, And bring our ain sweet Albany.

Alas the day, and wo the day,

A false usurper wan the gree,

Who now commands the towers and lands,
The royal right of Albany.

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,
The time may come, with pipe and drum,
We'll welcome hame fair Albany.

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN LOCH

TURIT.

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your watery haunt forsake ?

Tell me, fellow-creatures, why

At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.
Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels :
But man, to whom alone is given
A ray direct from pitying Heaven,
Glories in his heart humane

And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wandering swains,
Where the mossy riv❜let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways,
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,

On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his powers you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

BLITHE WAS SHE.

TUNE- Andro and his Cutty Gun.

CHORUS.

BLITHE, blithe and merry was she,

Blithe was she but and ben:

Blithe by the banks of Earn,
And blithe in Glenturit Glen.