Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure, When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, Though my wallet was scant I remember'd his case, 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 Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, And glads the azure skies; But naught can glad the weary wight That fast in durance lies. Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 1 larks. The merle,2 in his noontide bow'r, The mavis wild, wi' many a note, In love and freedom they rejoice, Now blooms the lily by the bank, 4 The primrose down the brae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland I was the Queen of bonnie France, Fu' lightly rose I in the morn, 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. And may those pleasures gild thy reign, GOD keep thee frae thy mother's faes, And when thou meet'st thy mother's friend, O! soon to me, may summer suns 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. 52.-TOM BOWLING. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, 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, 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. Burns. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, Shall give, to call life's crew together, Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd; For, tho' his body's under hatches, 53. THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. My hair is grey, but not with years, In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears; For they have been a dungeon's spoil, Their belief with blood have seal'd; Dibdin. Dying as their father died, Of whom this wreck is left the last. grey There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, They chain'd us each to a column stone, |