THE WILD GLEN SAE GREEN.

AIR-"Roslin Castle."

WHEN my flocks upon the heathy hill are lying a' at rest,

And the gloamin' spreads its mantle grey o'er the world's dewy breast,

I'll take my plaid and hasten through yon woody dell unseen,

And meet my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

I'll meet her by the trysting-tree that's stannin' a' alane,

Where I ha'e carved her name upon yon little

moss grey stane,

There I will fauld her to my breast, and be mair bless'd I ween

Than a' that are aneath the sky, in the wild glen sae green.

Her head reclined upon this heart, in simple bliss I'll share

The pure, pure kiss o' tender love that owns nae earthly care,

And spirits hovering o'er us shall bless the heartfelt scene,

While I woo my bonnie lassie in the wild glen sae green.

My fauldin' plaid shall shield her frae the gloamin's chilly gale;

The star o' eve shall mark our joy, but shall not tell our tale

Our simple tale o' tender love-that tauld sae oft has been

To my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen

.

sae green.

It may be sweet at morning hour, or at the noon o' day,

To meet wi' those that we lo'e weel in grove or garden gay;

But the sweetest bliss o' mortal life is at the hour o❜ e'en,

Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green.

O! I could wander earth a' o'er, nor care for aught o' bliss,

If I might share, at my return, a joy sae pure as this;

An I could spurn a' earthly wealth-a palace

and a queen,

For my bonnie, bonnie lassie, in the wild glen sae green!

SCOTIA'S THISTLE.

SCOTIA's thistle guards the grave, Where repose her dauntless brave; Never yet the foot of slave

Has trod the wilds of Scotia.

Free from tyrant's dark control-
Free as waves of ocean roll-
Free as thoughts of minstrel's soul,
Still roam the sons of Scotia.

Scotia's hills of hoary hue, Heaven wraps in wreathes of blue, Watering with its dearest dew

The heathy locks of Scotia. Down each green-wood skirted vale, Guardian spirits, lingering, hail Many a minstrel's melting tale, As told of ancient Scotia.

When the shades of eve invest
Nature's dew-bespangled breast,
How supremely man is blest

In the glens of Scotia !
There no dark alarms convey
Aught to chase life's charms away;
There they live, and live for aye,

Round the homes of Scotia.

Wake, my hill harp! wildly wake!
Sound by lee and lonely lake,
Never shall this heart forsake

The bonnie wilds of Scotia.
Others o'er the ocean's foam
Far to other lands may roam,
But for ever be my home

Beneath the sky of Scotia!

THE LAND OF GALLANT HEARTS.

OURS is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of lovely forms,

The island of the mountain-harp,

The torrents and the storms;

The land that blooms with freeman's tread, And withers with the slave's,

Where far and deep the green woods spread, And wild the thistle waves.

Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice

Had told of Fingal's fame, Ere ever from their native clime The Roman eagles cameOur land had given heroes birth, That durst the boldest brave, And taught, above tyrannic dust, The thistle tufts to wave.

What need we say how Wallace fought,
And how his foemen fell?

Or how on glorious Bannockburn
The work went wild and well?
Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
The land of honour'd graves,
Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart
While yet the thistle waves.

Our ain native land! our ain native land! Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand,

And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen,

The charms of her maids and the worth of her

men.

Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave, And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave,

Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand,

The freedom and faith of our ain native land.

THE GRECIAN WAR SONG.

ON! on to the fields, where of old

The laurels of freedom were won;

Let us think, as the banners of Greece we unfold,

Of the brave in the pages of glory enroll'd,
And the deeds by our forefathers done!

O yet, if there's aught that is dear,

Let bravery's arm be its shield;

Let love of our country give power to each spear,

And beauty's pale check dry its long-gather'd

tear

In the light of the weapons we wield. Awake then to glory, that Greece yet may be The land--the proud land of the famed and

the free!

Rear! rear the proud trophies once more,

Where Persia's hosts were o'erthrown; Let the song of our triumph arise on our shore, Till the mountains give back the far sounds, as of yore,

To the fields where our foemen lie strewn! Oh ne'er shall our bold efforts cease

Till the garlands of freedom shall wave

In breezes, which, fraught with the tidings of peace,

Shall wander o'er all the fair islands of Greece, And cool not the lip of a slave:

Awake then to glory! that Greece yet may be The land-the proud land of the famed and the free.

FLORA'S LAMENT.

MORE dark is my soul than the scenes of yon islands,

Dismantled of all the gay hues that they wore;

For lost is my hope since the Prince of the Highlands

'Mong these, his wild mountains, can meet

me no more.

Ah! Charlie, how wrung was this heart when it found thee

Forlorn, and the die of thy destiny cast;

And the valley of flowers, and the heathcovered waste,

Shall alike have a spell of enchantment for

me.

Let her eye pour its light o'er the joy of my heart,

Or mingle its beam with the gloom of my

woe,

And each shadow of care from the soul shall depart,

Save of care that on her it is bliss to bestow.

My thought shall not travel to sun-lighted isles, Nor my heart own a wish for the wealth they may claim,

But live and be bless'd in rewarding her smiles With the song of the harp that shall hallow her name.

The anthems of music delightful may roll,
Or eloquence flow as the wave of the sea,
But the sounds that enchantment can shed
o'er the soul

Are the lass that we love, and the land that is free!

THE BOWER OF THE WILD.

I FORMED a green bower by the rill o' yon glen,

Afar from the din and the dwellings of men; Where still I might linger in many a dream, And mingle my strains wi' the voice o' the stream.

From the cave and the cliff, where the hill foxes roam,

Where the earn has his nest and the raven his home,

I brought the young flower-buds ere yet they had smiled,

And taught them to bloom round my bower of the wild.

Oh! had they ne'er come, or had ne'er gone away,

I sing in my sorrow still day after day.
The scene seems a desert-the charm is exiled,
And woe to my blooms and my bower of the
wild!

THE CROOK AND PLAID.
AIR-"The Ploughman."

I WINNA love the laddie that ca's the cart and pleugh,

Though he should own that tender love, that's only felt by few;

For he that has this bosom a' to fondest love betray'd,

Is the faithfu' shepherd laddie that wears the crook and plaid;

For he's aye true to his lassie-he's aye true to his lassie,

Who wears the crook and plaid.

At morn he climbs the mountains wild his fleecy flocks to view,

While o'er him sweet the laverock sings, new sprung frae 'mang the dew;

His doggie frolics roun' and roun', and may not weel be stay'd,

Sae blythe it is the laddie wi' that wears the crook and plaid;

And he's aye true, etc.