I look'd owre the quiet o' death's empty dwelling,

The laverock walk'd mute 'mid the sorrowful scene, And fifty brown hillocks wi' fresh mould were swelling Owre the kirkyard o' Denholm, last simmer sae green.

The infant had died at the breast o' its mither;

The cradle stood still at the mitherless bed; At play the bairn sunk in the hand o' its brither; At the fauld on the mountain the shepherd lay dead.

Oh! in spring-time 'tis eerie, when winter is over,
And birds should be glinting owre forest and lea,
When the lint-white and mavis the yellow leaves cover,
And nae blackbird sings loud frae the tap o' his tree.

But eerier far, when the spring-land rejoices,

And laughs back to heaven with gratitude bright, To hearken, and naewhere hear sweet human voices When man's soul is dark in the season o' light!

THE THREE SEASONS OF LOVE.

WITH laughter swimming in thine eye,
That told youth's heart-felt revelry;
And motion changeful as the wing
Of swallow waken'd by the spring;
With accents blithe as voice of May,
Chanting glad Nature's roundelay;
Circled by joy like planet bright
That smiles 'mid wreaths of dewy light,
Thy image such, in former time,
When thou, just entering on thy prime,

And woman's sense in thee combined
Gently with childhood's simplest mind,
First taught'st my sighing soul to move
With hope towards the heaven of love!

Now years have given my Mary's face
A thoughtful and a quiet grace:
Though happy still, yet chance distress
Hath left a pensive loveliness;

Fancy hath tamed her fairy gleams,

And thy heart broods o'er home-born dreams!
Thy smiles, slow-kindling now and mild,
Shower blessings on a darling child;
Thy motion slow and soft thy tread,
As if round thy hush'd infant's bed!
And when thou speak'st, thy melting tone,
That tells thy heart is all my own,
Sounds sweeter from the lapse of years,
With the wife's love, the mother's fears!

By thy glad youth and tranquil prime
Assured, I smile at hoary Time;
For thou art doom'd in age to know
The calm that wisdom steals from woe;
The holy pride of high intent,

The glory of a life well spent.
When, earth's affections nearly o'er,
With Peace behind and Faith before,

Thou render'st up again to God,

Untarnish'd by its frail abode,

Thy lustrous soul, then harp and hymn

From bands of sister seraphim,

Asleep will lay thee, till thine eye
Open in immortality.

PRAYER TO SLEEP.

O GENTLE Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head
For one little hour on thy lover's bed,
And none but the silent stars of night
Shall witness be to our delight?

Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be
Of the eider-down that is spread for thee,
So I in my sorrow must lie alone,

For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.

Music to thee I know is dear;

Then the saddest of music is ever here,
For Grief sits with me in my cell,
And she is a syren who singeth well.

But thou, glad Sleep! lov'st gladsome airs,
And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers,
When the bells of merriment are ringing,
And bliss with liquid voice is singing.

Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,
No rival hast thou in my solitude,
Be mine, my love! and we two will lie
Embraced for ever, or awake to die!

Dear Sleep, farewell! hour, hour, hour, hour, Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow; But thou art Joy's faithful paramour,

And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.

DAVID WEBSTER.

DAVID WEBSTER was born in Dunblane, on the 25th September 1787. He was the second of a family of eight children born to his parents, who occupied the humbler condition of life. By his father, he was destined for the Church, but the early death of this parent put a check on his juvenile aspirations. He was apprenticed to a weaver in Paisley, and continued, with occasional intermissions, to prosecute the labours of the loom. His life was much chequered by misfortune. Fond of society, he was led to associate with some dissolute persons, who professed to be admirers of his genius, and was enticed by their example to neglect the concerns of business, and the duties of the family-hearth, for the delusive pleasures of the tavern. From his youth he composed verses. In 1835, he published, in numbers, a volume of poems and songs, with the title, "Original Scottish Rhymes." His style is flowing and graceful, and many of his pieces are marked by keen satire and happy humour. The songs inserted in the present work are favourable specimens of his manner. He died on the 22d January 1837, in his fiftieth year.

* The present memoir is condensed from a well written biographical sketch of Webster, obligingly prepared for our use by Mr Charles Fleming, of Paisley.

TAK IT, MAN, TAK IT.

TUNE-"Brose and Butter."

WHEN I was a miller in Fife,

Losh! I thought that the sound o' the happer Said, Tak hame a wee flow to your wife, To help to be brose to your supper. Then my conscience was narrow and pure, But someway by random it racket; For I lifted twa neivefu' or mair,

While the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill and the kill,

The garland and gear for my cogie,
Hey for the whisky and yill,

That washes the dust frae my craigie.

Although it's been lang in repute
For rogues to mak rich by deceiving,
Yet I see that it does not weel suit

Honest men to begin to the thieving;
For my heart it gaed dunt upon dunt,
Oh! I thought ilka dunt it would crack it;
Sae I flang frae my neive what was in 't,
Still the happer said, Tak it, man, tak it.
Hey for the mill, &c.

A man that's been bred to the plough,
Might be deaved wi' its clamorous clapper;
Yet there 's few but would suffer the sough

After kenning what's said by the happer.