Fainter, and fainter, still they grow,

As sinks the fierce devouring glow. The masts amid a fiery rain.

Fall hissing in the tranquil main,

The fire upon the ship burns low.

The sun from out the eastern sea
Comes diademed with light,
The waves upleaping in the lee,
Are in his splendor bright;
And drifting slowly onward lo!
A blackened hull is left to show
The horrors of the night.

MARY'S DREAM.

ALEXANDER LOWE.

THE moon had climb'd the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,

And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light o'er tower and tree: When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When soft and low a voice was heard Say, Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be She saw young Sandy shivering stand, With visage pale and hollow e'e. "O Mary dear! cold is my clay, It lies beneath a stormy sea; Far, far from thee I sleep in death, So, Mary, weep no more for me!

"Three stormy nights and stormy days We toss'd upon the raging main; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain.

E'en then, when horror chill'd my blood, My heart was fill'd with love for thee; The storm is past, and I at rest,

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

"O maiden dear, thyself prepare,—

We soon shall meet upon that shore Where love is free from doubt and care.

And thou and I shall part no more.' Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see;

But soft the passing spirit said,

"Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!"

THERE'S UAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

W. J. MICKLE,

AND are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jades, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think o' wark,

When Colin's at the door?

Gie me my cloak,-I'll to the quay,

And see him come ashore.

For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nae luck ava';

There's little pleasure in the house,
When our gudeman's awa'.

And gie me down my biggonet,

My bishop-satin gown,

And rin and tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.

My Sunday shoon they maun gae on,
My hose o' pearl blue;

Its a' to please my ain gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Rise up and mak' a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pot;

Gi'e little Kate her cotton gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat:

And mak' their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw;

It's a' to please my ain gudeman,
He likes to see them braw.

For there's nae luck, &c.

There's twa fat hens upon the bauk, They've fed this month and mair; Mak' haste and thraw their necks about That Colin weel may fare;

And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw;

For wha can tell how Colin fared,

When he was far awa'.

For there's nae luck, &c.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech,
His breath like caller air;
His very foot has music in't,

As he comes up the stair!

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,

In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.

The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,
That thirl'd through my heart,
They're a' blawn by, I ha'e him safe,
Till death we'll never part:

But what puts parting in my head!
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw,

For there's nae luck, &c.

Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content,
I ha'e nae mair to crave;

Could I but live to mak' him blest,

I'm blest aboon the lave: And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought,— In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, &c.