"O what is 't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?

An' what gars the tear come sae fast to my e'e?
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that losses its mither;
Nae mither nor friend the puir lammie can see.
I fear I ha'e left my bit heart a' thegither,

Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.

"Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon,
The bonny blue ribbon that Jamie gae me :
Yestreen when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.

Though now he said naething but 'Fare ye well, Lucy,'
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He couldna say mair, but just, 'Fare ye weel, Lucy,'
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

"The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit;
The hare likes the brake an' the braird on the lee;
But Lucy likes Jamie,"-She turned an' she lookit;
She thought the dear place she wad never mair see.
Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie an' cheerless !
An' weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn!
His bonny sweet Lucy, sae gentle an' peerless,

Lies cauld in her grave, an' will never return.

THE SLIGHTED LASSIE.

ALAKE for the lassie ! she's no right at a','
That lo'es a dear laddie, an' he far awa';

But the lassie has muckle mair cause to complain,
That lo'es a dear lad when she's no lo'ed again.

The fair was just comin'; my heart it grew fain
To see my dear laddie, to see him again;
My heart it grew fain, an' lap light at the thought
Of milkin' the ewes my dear Jamie wad bught.

The bonny grey morn had scarce opened her e'e
When we set to the gate a', wi' nae little glee;
I was blyth, but my mind oft misga'e me right sair,
For I hadna seen Jamie for five months an' mair.

I' the hirin' right soon my dear Jamie I saw ;
I saw na ane like him, sae bonny and braw;
I watched and baid near him, his motions to see,
In hopes ay to catch a kind glance o' his e'e.

He never wad see me in ony ae place;

At length I gaed up an' just smiled in his face,
I wonder ay yet my heart brak na in twa ;—
He just said, "How are ye?" an' steppit awa'.

My neiber lads strave to entice me awa',

They roos'd me, an' heght me ilk thing that was braw;

But I hated them a', an' I hated the fair,

For Jamie's behaviour had wounded me sair.

His heart was sae leel, an' his manners sae kind!
He's someway gane wrang, but may alter his mind;
An' sude he do sae, he's be welcome to me;
I'm sure I can never like ony but he.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

ABSENCE.

'Tis not the loss of love's assurance,
It is not doubting what thou art,
But 'tis the too, too long endurance
Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts two hearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,

Are fruits on desert isles that perish,

Or riches buried in the deep.

What though, untouched by jealous madness,
Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck ;

Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadness,
Is but more slowly doom'd to break.

Absence!-Is not the soul torn by it

From more than light, or life, or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet,

The pain without the peace of death.

SONG.

DRINK ye to her that each loves best,
And if you nurse a flame

That's told but to her mutual breast,
We will not ask her name.

Enough, while memory tranced and glad

Paints silently the fair,

That each should dream of joys he's had,
Or yet may hope to share.

Yet far, far hence be jest or boast
From hallowed thoughts so dear;

But drink to them that we love most,
As they would love to hear.

CAROLINE.

I'LL bid the hyacinth to blow,
I'll teach my grotto green to be;
And sing my true love, all below
The holly bower and myrtle tree.

There all his wild-wood sweets to bring,

The sweet south wind shall wander by, And with the music of his wing

Delight my rustling canopy.

Come to my close and clustering bower,
Thou spirit of a milder clime,

Fresh with the dews of fruit and flower
Of mountain heath, and moory thyme.

With all thy rural echoes come,
Sweet comrade of the rosy day,
Wafting the wild bee's gentle hum,
Or cuckoo's plaintive roundelay.

Where'er thy morning breath has play'd
Whatever isles of ocean fann'd,

Come to my blossom-woven shade,
Thou wandering wind of fairy-land.

For sure from some enchanted isle

Where Heaven and Love their Sabbath hold,

Where pure and happy spirits smile,

Of beauty's fairest, brightest mould;

From some green Eden of the deep,
Where Pleasure's sigh alone is heaved,

Where tears of rapture lovers weep,

Endear'd. undoubting, undeceived!