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Now far remov'd from every care; 'boon yon burn side,
Thou bloom'st, my love, an angel fair, 'boon yon burn side ;

And if angels pity know,

Sure the tear for me will flow,
Who must linger here below, down by yon burn side.

LIII.

WHERE DOST THOU BIDE.

Where dost thou bide, bless'd soul of my love ?

Is ether thy dwelling? O, whisper me where? Wrapt in remembrance, while lonely I rove,

I gaze on bright clouds, and I fancy thee there,

Or to thy bower, while musing I go,

I think 'tis thy voice that I hear in the breeze; Softly it seems to speak peace to my woe,

And life once again for a moment can please.

Can this be frenzy ? if so, 'tis so dear,

That long may the pleasing delusion be nigh; Still Ellen's voice in the breeze may I hear,

Still see in bright clouds the kind beams of her eye.

LIV.

O CHERUB, CONTEXT.

O cherub, Content, at thy moss-cover'd sbrine
I'd all the gay hopes of my bosom resign,
I'd part with ambition, thy vot’ry to be,
And breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee.

I'd part with ambition, &c.

But thy presence appears from my wishes to fly,
Like the gold-colour'd cloud on the verge of the sky;
No lustre that hangs on the green willow tree,
Is so short as the smile of thy favour to me.

No lustre that hangs, &c.

In the pulse of my heart I have nourish'd a care,
That forbids me thy sweet inspiration to share,
The noon of my youth, slow-departing, I see,
But its years, as they pass, bring no tidings of thee.

The noon of my youth, &c.

O cherub, Content, at thy moss-cover'd shrine,
I would offer my vows, if Matilda were mine;
Could I call her my own, whom enraptur'd I see,
I would breathe not a sigh but to friendship and thee.

Could I call her my own, &c.

LV.

A COGIE O' ALE AND A PICKLE AIT MEAL

A cogie o' ale and a pickle ait meal,

And a dainty wee drappy o'whisky,
Was our forefathers' dose to sweel down their brose,

And mak’ them blythe, cheery, and frisky.

Then hey for the cogie, and hey for the ale,
And hey for the whisky, and hey for the meal ;
When mir'd a' thegither they do unco weel
To mak' a chiel cheery and brisk aye.

As I view our Scots lads, in their kilts and cockades,

A' blooming and fresh as a rose, man;
I think, wi' mysel', o' the meal and the ale,
And the fruits of our Scottish kail brose, man.

Then hey for the cogie, fc.

When our brave Highland blades, wi' their claymores and

plaids, In the field drive, like sheep, a' our foes, man; Their courage

and power spring frae this, to be sure, They're the noble effects of the brose, man.

Then hey for the cogie, &c.

But your spindle-shank'd sparks, wha but ill set their sarks,

And your pale visag'd milk-sops, and beaux, man,
I think, when I see them, 'twere kindness to gi'e them
A cogie of ale and of brose, man.

Then hey for the cogie, 8c.

LVI.

VALE OF THE CROSS

Vale of the Cross, the shepherds tell,
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell;
For there are sainted shadows seen,
That frequent haunt thy dewy green :
In wandering winds the dirge sung
The convent bell by spirits rung,
And matin hymns and vesper prayer,
Break softly on the tranquil air.

Vale of the Cross, the shepherds tell,
'Tis sweet within thy woods to dwell;
For peace hath there her spotless throne,

And pleasures to the world unknown; * The beautiful little vale which is here referred to, is situated near the town of Llangollen ;-the ruins of a church that was built in the form o a cross, and the remains of an abbey, shaded by hanging woods, contribute greatly to its romantic appearance.

The murmur of the distant rills,
The Sabbath silence of the hills,
And all the quiet God hath given,
Without the golden gates of heaven.

LVII.

MAID OF ALDERNEY.

O stop na', bonny bird, that strain,

Frae hopeless love itself it flows; Sweet bird, O warble it again,

Thou'st touch'd the string o' a' my woes; O! lull me with it to repose,

I'll dream of her who's far away, And fancy, as my eyelids close,

Will meet the maid of Alderney.

Couldst thou but learn frae me my grief,

Sweet bird, thou’dst leave thy native grove, And fly, to bring my soul relief,

To where my warmest wishes rove; Soft as the cooings of the dove,

Thou'lt sing thy sweetest, saddest lay, And melt to pity and to love,

The bonny maid of Alderney,

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