An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk, And, O, what will the lads do The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw The priest has said-in confidence- And that is mair in maiden's praise But, O, what will the lads do The wailing in our green glen "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? Ay, there's a blank at my right hand, '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 beThat still the blank at my right hand Can never be made up to me! I blame not Providence's sway, Enjoy the same, whate'er betide. Can never be made up to me! THERE'S GOWD IN THE BREAST. I HAVE forgot whether this is one of the proscribed ones or not; I think it is: but I have not Mr Moore's songs by me. It is set by Smith to a fine old Irish air, ycleped "The Red Fox;" but I know not if it is in existence, as these cancelled things are hard to come at. THERE'S gowd in the breast of the primrose pale, There's riches galore in the breeze of the vale, Then come, my love, at the hour of joy, The courtier joys in bustle and power, The miser in hoards of treasured ore, F |