The bulfinches, blackbirds, and larks,
As friends to both parties, flew round,
And eagerly chirp'd their remarks

In what bliss such a match must abound.
La lira, &c.

Quoth the circle, 'you ne'er can object
The thrush must be surely your choice-
He's the husband our wisdoms elect,

All your family give him their voice."

The linnet replied, in sly tone,

La lira, &c.

'Let the thrush take the voice of my

I'll keep for another my own.'

friends,

La lira, &c.

My song, with it's moral, here ends,

The Golden Girl.

Lucy is a golden girl,

But a man, a man should woo her;

They who seek her, shrink aback,

When they should, like storms, pursue her.

All her smiles are hid in light,

All her hair is lost in sple idor,

But she hath the eyes of night,
And a heart that's over tender.
Oh! Lucy is, &c.

Yet the foolish suitors fly,

(Is't excess of dread or duty ?) From the starlight of her eye, Leaving to neglect her beauty: Men by fifty seasons taught,

Leave her to a young beginner, Who without a second thought,

Whispers, woos, and straight must win her. Oh! Lucy is, &c.

Awake the Harp's Slumber.

Awake the harp's slumber to pleasure's soft lay,
The taper shall dart its beams thro' the hall;
From the tempest of war, and the battle's loud bray,
We'll dearly obey mirth's heart-thrilling call.
Ah! change the light strain, bid the sorrow arise,
To the ghost of each warrior, as pensive it flies;
To triumph or death,

They strode o'er the heath,

And sweet is the sleep that encircles their eyes.

On the breast of the brave melting beauty shall cling, And nobly for him the goblet be crown'd;

The feast shall be spread, and the harp's throbbing string

Shall stream to his praise its magic around.

Oh! blest is the effort, and light is the toil,

When we raise the bright spear for our dear native soil;

To triumph or death,

We strode o'er the heath,

To fight for our country, or die with a smile.

A weary Lot is thine.

By Sir WALTER SCOTT.

A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine;

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,

No more of me you know,

My love!

No more of you know.

This morning, merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain,

But she shall bloom in winter's snow,
Ere we two meet again.

He turned his charger, as he spake,
Upon the river shore;

He gave his bridle reins a shake,

Said, 'adieu, for ever more,

My love

Adieu, forever more.'

The Highland Widow. Oh! leave me not, my only one, Life hath few charms for me, And wouldst thou sever that, my son, Which binds my heart to thee: Leave not the mountains and the heath, Thy father used to rove,

Free as the winds whose mighty breath,
Roam o'er the land we love.

Unlike a tree whose root still clings,
Where first its branches grew,
If thou wilt leave me, still thy home
Shall be my dwelling too :
Yet, as I take a ling'ring look
Of scenes thy father lov'd,
I feel I cannot leave the home,
O'er which his footsteps rov'd.

Her Heart is not there.
There is no music on the strings
Of her neglected lute,

Her white hands wake no more its chords,
Her bird-like voice is mute,

She wreaths no garlands for her vase,

No roses for her hair;

She loiters in her lonely grove,

But her heart is not there.

The dancers gather in the hall,
She is amid the band,

With vacant smile and wand'ring glance,
For those who claim her hand.
Her eyes fill'd with unbidden tears,

Her cheek is pale with care;
She's lonely 'mid the festival,
For her heart is not there.

She broods above her own dear thoughts,
As o'er her nest the dove,

While hope and mem'ry's but one dream,
Her first young dream of love.
She hears a gallant trumpet sound,
A banner sweeps the air,

She sees a knight lead on the charge,
And oh, her heart was there!

If silent Looks betoken,

If silent looks betoken,
Our deeper feelings best,

If thoughts which are not spoken,
Are but more sweetly guess'd,
Thou knowest mine already,
While gazing on my brow,
I grieve not, dearest lady,
That language fails me now.

But that hope may not borrow,
The bright hue of thine eyes,
To light love's world of sorrow
With a ray of paradise.

Why could I not have met thee,
Ere love was so forbidden?
Why may I not forget thee,

Since my memory e'en is chidden?

Thro' the night-time long and lonely,
My sleepless thoughts are thine,
I weep, to fancy only,

What bliss might have been mine;
Oh! the spirit unforgiven,

No keener pangs hath known,
When gazing on the heaven
It ne'er may call its own.

In happier Hours.

By T. H. BAILEY.

In happier hours, my pleasure all day

Was to rove with the thoughtless, or dance with the

gay;

Through life as I sported, no clouds could I see,
And the hearts that were gayest, were dearest to me.
But now, in affliction, how changed is the view,
The gay hearts are many-sincere ones are few.
Though some come around us to laugh and to jest,
In sickness or sorrow they shrink from the test;
Their love and their friendship endure for awhile,
When fortune is smiling, they also can smile;
Like blossoms that wither when day-light is gone,
And lose all their sweetness when out of the sun.
But thou, in my sorrow, still faithfully came,
And though I am altered, I find you the same;
Whene'er you come near me no pleasure you find,
But always leave something like pleasure behind.
Like the night-blowing seris, which sheds its perfume
And opens its blossoms midst darkness and gloom.