MARION GRAHAM;

A PASTORAL ballad, written expressly for the first Number of the Literary Journal, and published there.

AWAKE, my bonny Marion Graham,

And see this scene before it closes,
The eastern lift is a' on flame,

And a' besprinkled o'er wi' roses;
It is a sight will glad your ee,
A sight my Marion loes to see.

Here are the streaks of gowden light,
Fair as my Marion's locks o' yellow;
And tints of blue as heavenly bright

As smile within her ee sae mellow;
Her cheeks, young roses, even seem
To dimple in yon heavenly beam.

Awake, my bonny Marion Graham,

Ye never saw sae bright adorning;

I canna bear that my sweet dame

Should lose the pleasures o' this morning;

For what wad a' its beauties be

Without some likeness unto thee?

I see thee in the silver stream,

The budding rose, and gracefu' willow; I see thee in yon morning beam,

And beauty of the glowing billow;

I see thy innocence and glee

In every lamb that skims the lea.

And could you trow it, lovely May,
I see thee in the hues of even,

Thy virgin bed the milky way,

Thy coverlet the veil of heaven!

There have I seen a vision dim
Hush'd by an angel's holy hymn.

And, Marion, when this morn, above

The gates of heaven, I saw advancing

The morning's gem-the star of love,

My heart with rapture fell a-dancing ; Yet I in all its rays could see,

And all its glories, only thee.

Ah! Marion Graham! 'tis e'en ower true,
And Gude forgie my fond devotion !
In earth's sweet green, and heaven's blue,
And all the dyes that deck the ocean,
The scene that brings nae mind o' thee
Has little beauty to my ee.

Get

up, ye little wily knave!

I ken your pawky jinks an' jeering, You like to hear your lover rave,

An' gar him trow ye dinna hear him; Yet weel this homage you'll repay,— Get up, my love, an' come away!

THE FLOWER

WAS published in the Forest Minstrel, upwards of twenty years ago, and has been partially popular ever since.-It was beautifully harmonized to a Gaelic air, by Miss C. Forest, in a single sheet.

O SOFTLY blaw, thou biting blast,
O'er Yarrow's lonely dale,

And spare yon sweet and tender bud

Exposed to every gale!

Long has she hung her drooping head,

Despairing to survive;

But partial sunbeams through the cloud
Still kept my flower alive.

One evening, when the sun was low,
Through yon lone dell I stray'd,
While little birds from every bough

Their music wild convey'd.

The sunbeam lean'd across the shower,

The rainbow girt the glen,

There first I saw my lovely flower

Far from the walks of men.

Her cheek was then the ruddy dawn, Stole from the rising sun;

The whitest feather from the swan

On her fair breast was dun.

Her mould of modest dignity

Was form'd the heart to win;

The dewdrop glist'ning in her eye,
Show'd all was pure within.

But frost on cold misfortune borne,
Hath crush'd her in the clay;

And ruthless fate hath rudely torn

Each kindred branch away.

That wounded stem will never close,

But bleeding still remain;

Relentless winds, how can you blow,

And nip my flower again!