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Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure,
And he constantly loved me although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folk sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he lick'd me for kindness—my old dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant I remember'd his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind ?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

Campbell.

51.–LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF

SCOTS,
ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.
Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o’ daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:
Now Phæbus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
But naught can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.
Now lav'rocksi wake the merry morn,
Aloft on dewy wing;

i larks.

The merle, in his noontide bow'r,
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis wild, wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest ;
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae ; *
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk white is the slae: 5
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweet amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.
I was the Queen of bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been;
Fu' lightly rose I in the morn,
As blithe lay down at e'en:
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there ;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And never-ending care.
But as for thee, thou false woman,
My sister and my fae, 6
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword
That through thy soul shall gae:
The weeping blood in woman's breast
Was never known to thee!
Nor th' balm that drops on wounds of woe
Frae woman's pitying ee.
My son ! my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine ;
2 blackbird. 3 thrush. 4 slope. 5 sloe. 6 foe.

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And may those pleasures gild thy reign,
That ne'er would blink on mine;
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:
And when thou meet’st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!
O! soon to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn ;
And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave.

Burns.

52.-TOM BOWLING.
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling

The darling of our crew ;
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,

For death has broach'd him to;
His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful below, he did his duty,

And now he's gone aloft.
Tom, never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many, and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair.
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah! many's the time and oft;
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He, Who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Tom's life has doff'd ;
For, tho' his body's under hatches,
His soul is gone aloft.

Dibdin.

53.—THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. My hair is grey, but not with years,

Nor grew it white

In a single night,
As men's have grown from sudden fears ;
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil,

But rusted with a vile repose,
For they have been a dungeon's spoil,
And mine has been the fate of those
To whom the goodly earth and air
Are bann'd, and barr'd-forbidden fare;
But this was for my father's faith
I suffer'd chains and courted death ;
That father perish'd at the stake
For tenets he would not forsake;
And for the same his lineal race
In darkness found a dwelling-place ;
We were seven-who now are one,
Six in youth and one in age,
Finish'd as they had begun,
Proud of persecution's rage ;
One in fire and two in field,
Their belief with blood have seald ;

Dying as their father died,
For the God their foes denied ;
Three were in a dungeon cast,
Of whom this wreck is left the last.
There are seven pillars of Gothic mould,
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,
There are seven columns, massy and grey
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray,
A sunbeam which hath lost its way,
And through the crevice and the cleft
Of the thick wall is fallen and left;
Creeping o'er the floor so damp,
Like a marsh's meteor lamp:
And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain;
That iron is a cankering thing,
For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun to rise
For years. I cannot count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score,
When my last brother droop'd and died,
And I lay living by his side.
They chain'd us each to a column stone,
And we were three-yet, each alone;
We could not move a single pace,
We could not see each other's face,
But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight;
And thus together—yet apart,
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart;
'Twas still some solace in the dearth

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