But birds far from thy branches built,
The wild deer pass'd thee by ;
No golden dew dropt on thy bough,

Glad summer scorned to grace

Thee with her flowers, nor shepherds wooed Beside thy dwelling place:

The axe has come and hewn thee down,

Nor left one shoot to tell

Where all thy stately glory grew:

Adieu, adieu, Dalzell !

An ancient man stands by thy gate,
His head like thine is gray;
Gray with the woes of many years,
Years fourscore and a day.

Five brave and stately sons were his ;

Two daughters, sweet and rare;

An old dame, dearer than them all,

And lands both broad and fair :

T

Two broke their hearts when two were slain,

And three in battle fell

An old man's curse shall cling to thee:
Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!

And yet I sigh to think of thee,

A warrior tried and true

As ever spurr'd a steed, when thick
The splintering lances flew.

I saw thee in thy stirrups stand,

And hew thy foes down fast,

When Grierson fled, and Maxwell fail'd,

And Gordon stood aghast,

And Graeme, saved by thy sword, raged fierce As one redeem'd from hell.

I came to curse thee-and I weep: in peace, Dalzell.

So go

THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL.

THOMAS PRINGLE, ESQ.

Our native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu!

Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Cheviot mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
And streams renown'd in song!
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,
Our hearts have lov'd so long!

Farewell, the blithesome broomy knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, the hoary, haunted, howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The mossy cave and mouldering tower
That skirt our native dell-

The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love! our father's home!
Land of the brave and free!

The sail is flapping on the foam
That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main—
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!

Our native land, our native vale,
A long and last adieu!
Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue!

LAST NIGHT A PROUD PAGE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Last night a proud page came to me:
Sir Knight, he said, I greet you free;
The moon is up at midnight hour,
All mute and lonely is the bower;
To rouse the deer my lord is gone,
And his fair daughter's all alone,
As lily fair, and as sweet to see—
Arise, Sir Knight, and follow me.

The stars stream'd out, the new-woke moon
O'er Chatsworth hill gleam'd brightly down,
And my love's cheeks, half-seen, half-hid,
With love and joy blush'd deeply red:
Short was our time, and chaste our bliss,
A whisper'd vow and a gentle kiss ;
And one of those long looks, which earth
With all its glory is not worth.

The stars beam'd lovelier from the sky,
The smiling brook flow'd gentlier by;
Life, fly thou on! I'll mind that hour
Of sacred love in greenwood bower:

Let seas between us swell and sound,

Still at her name my heart shall bound;
Her name which like a spell I'll keep,
To soothe me and to charm my sleep.

THE MARINER.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

It's sweet to go with hound and hawk,
O'er moor and mountain roamin';
It's sweeter to walk on the Solway side,
With a fair maid at the gloamin';

But its sweeter to bound o'er the deep green sea,
When the flood is chafed and foamin';

For the seaboy has then the prayer of good men, And the sighing of lovesome woman.

The wind is up, and the sail is spread,
And look at the foaming furrow
Behind the bark, as she shoots away
As fleet as the outlaw's arrow !
And the tears drop fast from lovely eyes,
And hands are wrung in sorrow;

But when we come back, there is shout and clap,
And mirth both night and morrow.