Or nobly die, the second glorious part (The patriot's God peculiarly thou art,

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward); O never, never, Scotia's realm desert!

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard.

[THE writer, well known in his time under his nom de plume of "Peter Pindar," rendered himself conspicuous by his humour and satire, but he has left a few things full of truth and pathos: from these we select

A

this favourite little poem. "Peter Pindar's" writings for the most part have lost their interest from the temporary and personal character of their subjects, but their raciness and point, whilst the application was apparent, rendered him famous, and his repute is an established historical one. miniature portrait of him by Lethbridge is in the National Collection. Wolcot's most completed writings are his “Lyric Odes to Royal Academicians" and "The Louisad."]

THE

HE old Shepherd's dog, like his master, was grey, His teeth all departed, and feeble his tongue ; Yet where'er Corin went, he was follow'd by Tray; Thus happy through life did they hobble along.

When, fatigued, on the grass the Shepherd would lie,
For a nap in the sun-'midst his slumbers so sweet,
His faithful companion crawl'd constantly nigh,

Placed his head on his lap, or lay down at his feet.

When Winter was heard on the hill and the plain,
And torrents descended, and cold was the wind,
If Corin went forth 'mid the tempests and rain,
Tray scorn'd to be left in the chimney behind.

At length, in the straw Tray made his last bed—
For vain, against Death, is the stoutest endeavour ;

To lick Corin's hand he rear'd up his weak head,
Then fell back, closed his eyes, and, ah! closed them for

ever.

Not long after Tray did the Shepherd remain,

Who oft o'er his grave with true sorrow would bend; And, when dying, thus feebly was heard the poor swain : "O bury me, neighbours, beside my old friend!"

But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;

Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

WHEN

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

HEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn, And gentle peace returning, Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, And mony a widow mourning, I left the lines and tented field, Where lang I'd been a lodger, My humble knapsack a' my wealth, A poor but honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheerily did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That pleased my youthful fancy.