Round memory's shrine fondly lingers

The joys that have twin'd their bright spell; And the harp that vibrates to these fingers, Sighs in sadness the tones of farewell.

Where Italy's bright skies are shining,

And France, sunny France, spreads her bloom, This heart will look back with repining, And its pleasures be sadden'd in gloom. Deep thrilling emotions are breaking,

While my thoughts on past images dwell; And my voice, at these visions awaking, Breathes in sadness the notes of farewell!

Bruce's Address to his Army.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, whom Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front of battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha will fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By our sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do or die!

Wreath the Bowl,
Wreath the bowl
With flow'rs of soul,
The brightest wit can find us:
We'll take a flight

Tow'rds heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us!
Should love amid

The wreaths be hid,

That joy th' enchanter brings us,
No danger fear

While wine is near,

We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then wreath the bowl

With flow'rs of soul,
The brightest wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Tow'rds heaven to-night,

And leave dull earth behind us!

'Twas nectar fed

Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;

And Man may brew

His nectar too,

The rich receipt's as follows:-
Take wine, like this,

Let looks of bliss

Around it well be blended,

Then bring wit's beam

To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar splendid!
So wreath the bowl, &c.

Bay of Biscay, 0!
Loud roar'd the dreadful thunder,
The rain a deluge showers;
The clouds were rent asunder,
By lightning's vivid powers.

The night both drear and dark!
Our poor
devoted bark,

Till next day, there she lay,
In the Bay of Biscay O!

Now dash'd upon the billows,
Our op'ning timbers creak-
Each fears a wat❜ry pillow,
None stops the dreadful leak.

To climb the slippery shrouds,
Each breathless seaman crowds,

As she lay, till the day,

In the Bay of Biscay O!

At length the wish'd-for morrow,
Broke through the hazy sky!
Absorb'd in silent sorrow,
Each heav'd the bitter sigh!
The dismal wreck to view
Struck horror to the crew,
As she lay, on that day,
In the Bay of Biscay O.

Her yielding timbers sever,

Her pitchy seams are rent;
When heaven, all bounteous ever,
Its boundless mercy sent-
A sail in sight appears,

We hail her with three cheers!

Now we sail with the gale,

From the Bay of Biscay O!

Highland Mary.

As sung by Mr. SINCLAIR.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around,
The castle of Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie;
There simmer first unfaulds her robes,
And there they langest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
Of my dear Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
As underneath her fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,

We tore ourselves asunder.
But, O! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early;
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary.

O pale, pale now those rosy lips,
I oft hae kiss'd sae fondly;

And clos'd for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

I'd be a Butterfly.

As sung by Miss E. JEFFERSON.

I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower,.

Where roses, and lilies, and violets meet;
Roving for ever from flower to flower,

And kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet.
I'd never languish for wealth or for power,
I'd never sigh to see slaves at my feet;
I'd be a butterfly, born in a bower,

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet,
I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly,

Kissing all buds that are pretty and sweet

Oh, could I pilfer the wand of a fairy,

I'd have a pair of those beautiful wings; Their summer day's ramble is sportive and airy, They sleep in a rose when the nightingale sings. Those who have wealth, must be watchful and wary, Power, alas! nought but misery brings; I'd be a butterfly, sportive and airy,

Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings,

I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly,

Rock'd in a rose when the nightingale sings.

What, tho' you tell me each gay little rover Shrinks from the breath of the first autumn day; Surely 'tis better when summer is over,

To die, when all fair things are fading away; Some in life's winter may toil to discover, Means of procuring a weary delay,

I'd be a butterfly, living a rover,

Dying when fair things are fading away,

I'd be a butterfly, I'd be a butterfly,

Dying when fair things are fading away.