"My country, farewell! for the days are expired On which I could hallow the deeds of the free; Thy heroes have all to new honours aspired,

They fight, but they fight not for Scotia nor me. All lost is our sway, and the name of our nation Is sunk in the name of our old mortal foe; Then why should the lay of our last degradation Be forced from the harp of old Ossian to flow?

My country, farewell! for the murmurs of sorrow Alone the dark mountains of Scotia become; Her sons condescend from new models to borrow, And voices of strangers prevail in the hum. Before the smooth face of our Saxon invaders

Is quench'd the last ray in the eye of the free; Then, oh! let me rest in the caves of my fathers,

Forgetful of them as forgetful of thee!"

WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY.

A VERY different strain from the foregoing. I heard a girl lilting over the first line to my little daughter Maggy, and forthwith went in and made a song of it.—It is set to a lively old strain by Bishop, and is beginning to be a favourite.

O WHAT Will a' the lads do

When Maggy gangs away?

O what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

There's no a heart in a' the glen
That disna dread the day.

O what will a' the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't

A waefu' wight is he;

Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,

An' laid him down to dee;

An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk,
And learnin' fast to pray.

And, O, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw
Has drunk her health in wine;

The priest has said-in confidence-
The lassie was divine-

And that is mair in maiden's praise
Than ony priest should say:

But, O, what will the lads do
When Maggy gangs away?

The wailing in our green glen
That day will quaver high,

"Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, The laverock frae the sky;

The fairies frae their beds o' dew

Will rise an' join the lay: An' hey! what a day will be

When Maggy gangs away!

A FATHER'S LAMENT.

A YOUNG friend of mine, whom I greatly admired for every manly and amiable virtue, was cut off suddenly in the flower of his age, (Mr R- An.) The next time that I visited the family, his parent's distress and expressions of fond remembrance affected me so deeply, that I composed the following verses in his character. I likewise composed an air for it, which I thought adapted to the words. It is finely set by Bishop, in his Select Melodies.

How can you bid this heart be blithe,

When blithe this heart can never be?

I've lost the jewel from my crown

Look round our circle, and you'll see
That there is ane out o' the ring
Who never can forgotten be-

Ay, there's a blank at my right hand,
That ne'er can be made up to me!

'Tis said as water wears the rock,

That time wears out the deepest line; It may be true wi' hearts enow,

But never can apply to mine. For I have learn'd to know and feelThough losses should forgotten be— That still the blank at my right hand Can never be made up to me!

I blame not Providence's sway,
For I have many joys beside,
And fain would I in grateful way

Enjoy the same, whate'er betide.
A mortal thing should ne'er repine,
But stoop to the Supreme decree;
Yet, oh! the blank at my right hand

Can never be made up to me!