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These tatter'd rags my poverty bespeaks,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years ;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road ;
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here as I craved a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial drove me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold !
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity o’er touched your breast,
Your hands would not with-hold the kind relief,
And tears of pity would not be represt.
Heaven sends misfortunes ; why should we repine ?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see ;
And
your
condition may

be soon like mine,
A child of sorrow and of misery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah ! oppression forced me from my cot-
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lured by a villain from her native home ;
Is cast abandoned on the world's wide stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet soother of my care,
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree ;
Fell, lingering fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door ;
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

Na broineagan so innsidh mi bhi bochd,
Mo chiabhan glasa dearbhaidh m'aois bhi mòr;
Gach preas a th’ann am ghruaidh luim chleachd
A bhi na sruth-chlais dhiomhair aig mo dheòir.
An tigh ud thall a th'air an àrdan uain',
Le 'aghaidh shleamhain mheall mi bhàr mo cheum ;
An sud fhuair saibhreas ionad taimh a's suain,
A's mòrchuis riomhach còmhnuidh ghrinn dh'i féin.
'S cruaidh cor an ti tha aimbeirteach a's fann!
An so 'n uair dh'iarram orra sud greim bidh,
Chuir òglach geòcach mi air falbh le greann,
A dh'iarraidh fasgadh ann an sgàil a b’iss'.
O! gabh gun dàil mi 'steach do ť fhàrdaich fhial,
Tha ghaoith ro chruaidh, a's mheith am fuachd mo chlìth!
Is gearr mo chuairt do'n uaigh d'am bheil mi triall,
Oir tha mi uireas'ach a's aosmhor, sgìth.
Na’n innsinn m'aobhar bròin gu h-iomlan duit,
M'a mhaothaich daonnachd riamh le tlus do chrì',
Do lamh cha diùltadh còmhnadh dhomh an diugh,
'S bhiodh deur a' mhulaid 'ruith o d' ghruaidh gun dith.
An gearain sinn 'n uair thig mi-shealbh 'n ar ddil ?
Se'm Freasdal thug mi chum na staid so féin ;
Do chorsa feudaidh bhi mar so gun dàil,
A'd' leanabh thrioblaidean a's truaigh'fo'n ghréin.
'N uair fhuair mi croiteag bheag o m'athair caoin,
Mar uiseig shunndaich dh'fhàiltich mi gach là ;
Ach dh'fhògair foirneart mi o m' bhothan faoin-
Mo phòr chaidh aog, a's fhuair mo spréidh am bàs.
Mo nighean ghràidh, 'bu chomhurtachd do m' aois,
Mheall daoi-fhear as a tìr 's o dachaidh féin,
A's thilg air faontradh i, gun suim no spéis,
Gu triali 'an aimbeairt ann an dùthaich chéin.
A's bean mo ghaoil, a dh'fhògradh cùram nam,
Ghrad bhuail an t-ordugh cruaidh so i le cràdh;
'S thuit i na h-iobairt do ea-dòchas buan,
A's dh'fhàg an saoghail truagh so aig a gràdh.
Gabh truas do bhròn an t-seann duin' fhann,
'S a bhuill air chrith 'g a iomchar chum do theach ;
Tha 'làithe ’nis ach beag air teachd gu ceann,
Dean còmhnadh ris ’s bidh àgh a'd' mhaoin gu beachd.

AFAR IN THE DESERT.

Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side ; When the ways of the world oppress the heart, And sick of the present I turn to the past. When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, From the fond recollections of former years ; And shadows of things that have long since fled Flit over the brain like ghosts of the dead. And my native land, whose magical name, Thrills through the heart like electric flame ; The home of my childhood, the haunt of my prime All the passions and scenes of these rapturous times. Bright visions of glory that vanish too soon, Day dreams that departed ere manhood's noon ; Attachments by fate or falsehood reft, And early companions either lost or left. When my feelings were young and the world was new, Like fresh flowers of Eden unfolding to view ; All, all is departed, forgotten forgone, And I, a lone exile, remembered by none. My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, A-weary of all that is under the sun; With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, I fly to the desert afar from man. When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, With its scenes of oppression, corruption and strife ; The proud man's frown and the poor man's fear, The scorner's laugh and the sufferer's tear. When the ways of the world oppress my heart, And I dread its vanity, vileness and art ; Ah! then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, Afar in the desert alone to ride. Where nothing corrupting or foolish is heard, But the wind's gentle zephyrs both near and far ; Away, away in the wilderness vast, Where the foot of the white man hath never past. And there while the night winds round me sigh, And the stars burn bright in midnight sky; As I sit apart on the desert stone, Like Elijah at Horeb's cave alone.

AN GAIDHEAL AIR FUADAN.

'Se mo mhiann a bhi triall anns na coillteanan fàs, Le mo steud-each bras rìomhach nach dìobair an càs, 'N uair 'bhios amhghairean geura 'toirt dheur o shùil, A’s mi caoidh gu ro chràiteach na dh'fhàg mi air chùl. A's a' sealltainn gu cianail-gach ial-a's gach balbh, Ri caomh sgàili’ean tiamhaidh nam bliadhnaibh a dh'fhalbh; A’s ri taibhsean nan eòlach (mo bhròn' 's mo luchd gaoil, 'Chaidh le gaoith fhuair an reòta mar cheò chur fa sgaoil. A's ri tìr sin mo dhùchais-ath-àrachadh 's clì Bheir a h-ainm anns gach uair theid a luaidh do mo chrì, 'S ris an dachaidh 'san d'fhàs mi air àiridh an fhraoich, Far nach cluinnt' ann ach gàirich nam bà a's nan laogh. Sin na bruadaran neònach tha 'seòladh mu m' cheann Mar a sheòlas am fireun mu chìrean nam beannSin na cusbairean sòlais o 'n d'fhògradh mi trà Mus an gann thainig m'òige gu treòir mheadhon-là. ’N sin bha m'inntinn glan maoth, a's bha 'n saoghal dhomh ùr Mar an t-àileadh an Eden a' séideadh feadh fhlùr; Ach chaochail, o'n uair sin, 's cha truagh leis an trds' Gum bheil an Gàidheal air fuadan 'sna coillteanan fàs. Tha mo neart doh a dhìth, tha mo chri' air toirt géillTha mi sàraichte sgìth leis gach ni tha fo'n ghréinTha mi claoidhte le truaighean nach smuaintich gu bràth Neach ach Gàidheal air fuadan 'sna coillteanan fàs. Ach 'n uair bhios gach gàbhadh tha’m fàsach nan deur Le'n denchainean cràiteach 's le'n sàrachadh geur'N uair bhios diomba nan triath, agus fiamhachd nam bochd, (Gui minic mar tha iad) 'g am fhàgail fo sprochd. ’Nuair bhios dòighean an t-saoghail 'cur daorsa air m'f honn, A's a dh'fhàgas 'mhi-naomhachd a's 'fhaoineis mi trom ; 'N sin nach mòr am fuasgladh, an suaimhneas, 's an gràs, 'Gheibh an Gàidheal air fuadan 'sna coillteanan fàs. 'S an àite nach cluinn mi ni truaillidh no baoth, Ach o thuath a’s i luasgadh nan craobh ; Fada cian anns an fhàsach o àros nan slògh, Far nach do thog an t-àireach riamh bàthigh na crò. Mu fheasgar tha'n iarmalt 's an iar air dhath 'n òir, 'N sin foillsichear an Ré dhomh 's na reultan 'na còir ; Ag inns’ gu bheil tràth dhomh bhi 'tàrsuinn fo bhruaich, Mar bha 'm fàidhe aig Horeb ’na ònar 's an uaimh.

A still small voice comes through the wild
Like a father consoling his fretful child ;
Which banisheth bitterness, wrath and fear,
Saying, “ Man is distant, bat God is near.”

THE CUCKO 0.*
Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove !

Thou messenger of spring !
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,

And woods thy welcome sing.
Soon as the daisy decks the green,

Thy certain voice we hear :
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,

Or mark the rolling year ?
Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet

From birds among the bowers.
The school-boy wandering through the wood,

To pull the primrose gay,
With pleasure listens to thy voice,

And imitates thy lay. * The following verses on the Cuckoo, said to have been composed by a medical gentleman in the Highlands, appeared in the 28th No. of the “ Mountain Visitor.” The writer admits that he had the Poem given above in his eye when he wrote, but denies that what he gives is a translation.

0! fàilt ort féin, a chuthag ghorm,

Le t'òran ceòlmhor, milis ;
'S e seirm do bheòil sa' chéitein og

A thogadh bròn o m' chridhe.
'S ro bhinn leam t'fhuaim sa' mhaduinn chéit',

’S tu air bàrr géig 'san innis ;
’N àm feasgar ciùin, aig bun nan stùc,

'N uair bhiodh an driùchd a' sileadh,
O! innis c'àit' an robh do thriall,

'N uair bha na siantan fionn-fhuar;

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