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No, Mary, we can meet nae mair,

Thou'st fause been to thysel and me,
Thou'st left me for anither's sake,

The thing I cou’dna done to thee.
The bosom aft that pillow'd thee,

That bosom how cou'dst thou forsake!
The heart that was sae set on thee,

Sae fond a heart, how cou'dst thou break ?

In a note which accompanied this song, this author informs us that it was written on occasion of his reading the celebrated speech of counsellor Phillips, entitled “ Guthrie v. Sterne." This is a case with which, no doubt, the most of our readers will be already well acquainted. It became extensively known at the time when it occurred, not oply from the peculiar atrocities which the crime itself involved, but chiefly on account of the very spirited address de. livered by Mr. Phillips in behalf of the injured hæsband.

As it would however encroach too much upon our present limits to give even a brief of this interesting case, we shall simply observe, that it became bighly aggravated on the part of the lady, and particularly distressing to the afflicted husband, from the consideration that her levity had forced her not only from a home, where happiness seemed to dwell, but from the superinten. dence and affection of four helpless children. This thought so affected the tender father, that he put them into mourning, thereby most significantly referring to their forlorn and orphan situation, and it is to this circumstance that the poet so feelingly alludes, in the second stanza, where he introduces * the wee things as eying their mournfu' garb.".

All pleasure now wi' thee has filed,

And hame is dreary, fu' o' wae;
Each former joy adds grief to think

That her I lov'd has us'd me sae.
The wee things eye their moumfu' garb,

Their mother aye they wish to see,
Their father's looks and tears they mark,

And wonder what the cause can be

The anguish which my bosom wrings,

O may'st thou, Mary, never feel ! For a' the ill thou'st done to me,

I'll aye sincerely wish thee weel. A deadly stroke to me thou'st gi'en,

Life elbing issues frae the woun', Yet hate me not, for soon will I

Baith wi' the world and thee hae done.



To thee, lov'd Dee, thy gladsome vales,

Where late with careless steps I rangid, Tho' prest with care, and sunk in woe,

To thee I bring a heart unchang'lo

I love thee, Dee, thy banks and glades,

Tho' memory there my bosom tear,
For there he rovd that broke my heart,

Yet to that heart, oh! still how dear.

Ye shades that echo'd to his vows,

And saw me once supremely blest ;
Oh yield me now a peaceful grave,

And give a förlorn maiden rest;
And should the false one hither stray,

No vengeful spirit bid him fear;
But tell him, tho' he broke my heart,

Yet to that heart he still was dear!




AIR-Is there a heart that never lov'd.

Is there a man whose breast ne'er glow'd

With Freedom's hallow'd fame,
Whose lips with accents never flow'd

In praises to her name;

Oh! bear him hence to Asia's plains,

Or Afric's desarts drear,
Where not a ray of freedom deigns

The humble but to cheer.

Oh! there's a charm in Liberty!

A spell of heavenly birth,
Which souls from meaner cares can free,

And lift them far from earth :
And he whose life's blood bravely flows

At freedom's glorious shrine,
May smile in triumph on his foes

And deem his fate divine !



When sets the sun o'er Lomond's height,

To blaze upon the western wave, When peace and love possess the grove,

And echo sleeps within its cave;

Led by love's soft endearing charms,

I stray the pathless winding vale, And hail the hour that gives to me

The lovely maid of Ormadale.

Her eyes outshine the star of night,

Her cheeks the morning's rosy hue, And pure as flower in summer shade,

Low bending in the pearly dew; Nor flower so fair and lovely pure,

Shall fate's dark wintry winds assail. As angel smile she aye will be

Dear to the bowers of Ormadale.

Let fortune soothe the heart of care,

And wealth to all its votaries give; Be mine the rosy smile of love,

And in its blissful arms to live : I would resign fair India's wealth,

And sweet Arabia's spicy gale, For balmy eve and Scotian bower,

With thee, lov'd maid of Ormadale

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