And all the past replace:

But, ah! I wake to endless woes,

And tears the fading visions close!

SONG.

O tuneful voice! I still deplore

Those accents which, though heard no more,
Still vibrate on my heart;

In echo's cave I long to dwell,

And still would hear the sad farewell,
When we were doomed to part.

Bright eyes, O that the task were mine
To guard the liquid fires that shine,
And round your orbits play;

To watch them with a vestal's care,
And feed with smiles a light so fair,
That it may ne'er decay!

THE sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, you tormentors! your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow,
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No; the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,

And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast; you exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone,

His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son: Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain; And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorned to complain.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

WHEN hope lies dead within the heart,
By secret sorrow close concealed,
We shrink lest looks or words impart
What must not be revealed.

"Tis hard to smile when one would weep;
To speak when one would silent be;
To wake when one would wish to sleep,
And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast
Who wander in this world of care,

And bend beneath the bitter blast,
To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet,
Where disappointment cannot come;
And time guides with unerring feet
The weary wanderers home.

SUSANNA BLAMIRE,

A NATIVE of Cumberland (1747), who resided some years with her sister, the wife of Col. Graham of Duchray in Perthshire, where she contracted a great fondness for the Scotch music and dialect. Some of her songs are unsurpassed in pathos and rhythmical beauty. She also wrote in the dialect of her native country. Miss Blamire was never married, and died in 1794. Her poetical works were published, with a biography by Mr. Patrick Maxwell, in 1842.

WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?

WHAT ails this heart o' mine?

What ails this watery ee?

What gars me a' turn pale as death

When I take leave o' thee?

When thou art far awa',

Thou 'lt dearer grow to me;

But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.

When I gae out at e'en,

Or walk at morning air,

Ilk rustling bush will seem to say

I used to meet thee there.

Then I'll sit down and cry,

And live aneath the tree,
And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,

I'll ca't a word frae thee.

I'll hie me to the bower

That thou wi' roses tied,

And where wi' mony a blushing bud

I strove myself to hide.

F

I'll doat on ilka spot

Where I ha'e been wi' thee;
And ca' to mind some kindly word
By ilka burn and tree.

THE SILLER CROUN.

AND ye sall walk in silk attire,
And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride
Nor think o' Donald mair.

O wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a poor broken heart?
Or what's to me a siller croun
Gin frae my love I part?

The mind, whose every wish is pure,

Far dearer is to me:

And ere I'm forced to break my faith, I'll lay me down an' dee.

For I hae pledged my virgin troth
Brave Donald's fate to share;
An' he has gi'en to me his heart,
Wi' a' its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart,
He gratefu' took the gift;
Could I but think to seek it back,
It wad be waur than theft.

The longest life can ne'er repay
The love he bears to me;

And ere I'm forced to break my troth,
I'll lay me down an' dee.

THE WAEFU' HEART.

GIN living worth could win my heart,
Ye would hae speak in vain;

But in the darksome grave it's laid,
Never to rise again.

My waefu' heart lies low wi' his,
Whose heart was only mine;

And O! what a heart was that to love!
But I maun na repine.

Yet O! gin heaven in mercy soon
Would grant the boon I crave,
And take the life, now naething worth,
Since Jamie's in the grave.

And, see, his gentle spirit comes
To speed me on my way,
Surprised, nae doubt, I still am here-
Sair wondering at my stay.

I come, I come, my Jamie dear;
And O! wi' what good will

I follow wheresoe'er ye lead!
Ye canna lead to ill.

She said; and soon a deadly pale

Her faded cheek possessed;

Her waefu' heart forgot to beat,—

Her sorrows soon to rest.

AULD ROBIN FORBES.

(IN THE CUMBERLAND DIALECT.)

And auld Robin Forbes hes gien tem a dance, I pat on my speckets to see them aw prance; I thout o' the days when I was but fifteen, And skipp'd wi' the best upon Forbes's green.