But what he had to dine upon,

In faith I shall not say;

But I'll wager he'll not come again
Upon a washing day.

For it's thump, thump, &c.

On the sad morning when I rise,
I make a fervent prayer,.
Up to the gods, that it may be
Throughout the day quite fair:
That not a gown or handkerchief,
May in the ditch be laid;
Oh! should it happen so, egad,
I'd catch a broken head.

For it's thump, thump, &c.

Come to me when Evening flings.
Composed for the "AMERICAN MINSTREL."
Come to me when evening flings

Her shadows o'er Night's dusky wings:
Ere yet the moon, from eastern skies,

Full-orb'd, on plain and upland beameth,
And stars, like fairy visions rise,

And through the depths of ether streameth.

Come to me then-it is the hour,
When Love exerts his mystic power;
Then, yielding beauty loves to hear,

While night conceals her joyous blushing, Tales not meet for maiden's ear,

From passion's lips like spring-tides gushing. Come to me then, when ev'ning flings Her shadows o'er earth's fairest things; When sadly sweet, from distant grove,

Is heard the night-bird's plaintive numbers, And all around, beneath, above,

Seems hush'd as infants' dreamless slumbers.

The Braes of Balquhither.
AIR-"The three Carls o' Buchanan."
Let us go, lassie, go

To the braes of Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow
'Mang bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the rae,
Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes of Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bow'r,
By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flow'rs o' the mountain.
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae dreary,
And return wi' their spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry wind

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling,
So merrily we'll sing

As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear sheeling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer is in prime

Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme,
A' the moorland perfuming!
To our dear native scenes
Let us journey together,
Where glad innocence reigns

'Mang the braes of Balquhither.

The Downhill of Life.

In the downhill of life when I find I'm declining, May my fate no less fortunate be,

Than a snug elbow-chair can afford for reclining, And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad pony to pace o'er the lawn, While I carol away idle sorrow;

And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn, Look forward with hope for to-morrow.

With a porch at my door both for shelter and shade too, As the sunshine or rain may prevail,

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail;

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when my friend wants to borrow; I'd envy no nabob his riches or fame,

Or the honors that wait him to-morrow.

From the bleak northern blast, may my cot be completely

Secur'd by a neighboring hill,

And at night may repose steal on me more sweetly,
By the sound of a murmuring rill.

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
With my friends will I share what to-day may afford,
And let them spread the table to-morrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering,
Which I've worn for years three score and ten;
On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this worn-out old stuff, which is threadbare to-day, May become everlasting to-morrow.

Oh! Hush the Soft Sigh.

Oh! hush the soft sigh, maid, and dry the sweet tear,
To this bosom thy image shall ever be dear:
Of hope's pictured scenes how the colors decay,
And love's fairy season as soon melts away!

When its balm breathing dew I delighted to sip,
Did I think a farewell would escape from that lip?
By honor commanded though far I should roam,
The loadstone of love will attract me to home.

At noon when the rose's warm blush thou shalt see, Oh! think of the wreaths thou hast woven for me! At night when the moon in mild splendor shall move, Oh! view that fair planet, and think how I love.

Eveleen's Eower.

Oh weep for the hour,

When to Eveleen's bower

The lord of the valley with false vows came;
The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night,

And wept behind the clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

The clouds past soon

From the chaste cold moon,

And heaven smil'd again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day

When the clouds shall pass away,

Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame,
The white snow lay

On the narrow path-way

Where the lord of the valley cross'd over the moor; And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint,

Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

Soon melted away

Ev'ry trace on the path where the false lord came; But there's a light above

Which alone can remove

That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

The Wounded Hussar.

Alone to the banks of the dark-rolling Danube
Fair Adelaide hied when the battle was o'er:
Oh whither, she cried, hast thou wandered, my lover;
Or where dost thou welter, and bleed on the shore?
What voice do I hear? 'twas my Henry that sigh'd!
All mournful she hasten'd, nor wander'd she far,
When bleeding, and, low, on the heath she descried,
By the light of the moon, her poor wounded

Hussar !

From his bosom that heav'd, the last torrent was streaming,

And pale was his visage deep mark'd with a scar; And dim was that eye, once expressively beaming, That melted in love, and that kindled in war! How smit was poor Adelaide's heart at the sight! How bitter she wept o'er the victim of war; Hast thou come, my fond love, this last sorrowful night, To cheer the lone heart of your wounded Hussar? Thou shalt live, she replied, heaven's mercy, relieving Each anguishing wound, shall forbid me to mourn! Ah, no! the last pang in my bosom is heaving; No light of the morn shall to Henry return! Thou charmer of life, ever tender and true! Ye babes of my love that await me afar!

His faltering tongue scarce could murmur adieu, When he sunk in her arms, the poor wounded Hussar !