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Mine is a dawning bright, Jesus is mine!

All that my soul has tried

Left but a dismal void,

Jesus has satisfied,

Jesus is mine!

Farewell mortality,

Jesus is mine!

Welcome eternity,

Jesus is mine!

Welcome ye scenes of rest,

Welcome ye mansions blest,

Welcome a Saviour's breast,

Jesus is mine!

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On seeing a picture of Morning on the Mountains.

GEORGE HUME

How beautiful is morning! I have been, Painter, like thee, a wanderer, when the hills Slept in their own great shadows, and have seen The dawn kiss out the stars, have heard the rills Warbling unseen, and sending forth the thrills Of soothing melody. Methinks thou art

My spirit's own interpreter, we gaze

In kindred feelings, gaze, aye, heart to heart,
As friend with friend.

THE QUEEN'S AVIHEN.

ALEX. RODGERS.

GOD bless our lovely Queen,
With cloudless days serene;-
God save our Queen.

From perils, pangs and woes,

Secret and open foes,

Till her last evening close,

God save our Queen,

From flattery's poisoned streams;-
From faction's fiendish schemes,

God shield our Queen;

With men her throne surround,

Firm, active, zealous, sound,

Just, righteous, sage, profound;-
God save our Queen.

Long may she live to prove,
Her faithful subjects' love;—

God bless our Queen.

Grant her an Alfred's zeal,

Still for the Commonweal,

Her people's wounds to heal;God save our Queen.

Watch o'er her steps in youth;In the straight paths of truth ;Lead our young Queen;

And as years onward glide,

Succor, protect and guide,

Albion's hope-Albion's pride;

God save our Queen.

Free from war's sanguine stain,
Bright be Victoria's reign;-

God guard our Queen.
Safe from the traitor's wiles,
Long may the Queen of Isles,
Cheer millions with her smiles;-

God save our Queen.

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The following beautiful tributary verses to the memory of those who fell at Airsmoss, were written by James Hislop, a native of the district where the skirmish took place. He composed them when only a shepherd boy, and when he had enjoyed few opportunities of improving his mind. They have frequently been reprinted, but seldom correctly. The following version is copied from the Scots Magazine for February, 1821:

IN a dream of the night I was wafted away,

To the moorland of mist where the martyrs lay; Where Cameron's sword and his Bible are seen, Engraved on the stane where the heather grows green.

"Twas a dream of those ages of darkness and blood, When the minister's hame was the mountain and wood; When in Wellwood's dark moorlands the standard of

Zion,

All bloody and torn, 'mang the heather was lying.

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