"O laddie, whisht! for sic a fright

I ne'er was in afore,

Fu' brawly did my mither hear

The kiss ahint the door.

The wa's are thick, ye needna fear,
But gin they jeer and mock,
I'll swear it was a startit cork,
Or wyte the rusty lock."
O meikle, etc.

We stappit ben, while Maggie's face
Was like a lowin' coal,

An', as for me, I could hae crept
Into a mouse's hole :

The mither look'd, safe's how she look'd!

Thae mithers are a bore,

An' gleg as ony cat to hear

A kiss ahint the door.

O meikle, etc.

The douce gudeman, tho' he was there,
As weel micht been in Rome,
For by the fire he fuff'd his pipe,
An' never fashed his thoom.
But tittrin' in a corner stood

The gawky sisters four,

A winter's nicht for me they micht
Hae stood ahint the door.

O meikle, etc.

"How daur ye tak' sic freedoms here?"

The bauld gudewife began ;

Wi' that a foursome yell gat up,

I to my heels an' ran;

A besom whiskit by my lug,

An' dishclouts half-a-score, Catch me again, tho' fidgin' fain,

At kissing 'hint the door.

O meikle, etc.

T. C. LATTO.

WHEN THE BUTTERFLY.

WHEN the butterfly swung on the rose's fair breast,
And zephyrs would steal from the sky,

When each bird had for pleasure forsaken the nest,
Fair Rosa in anguish would sigh;

Yet ev'n she was lovely as e'er was the thought
Of innocence smiling in sleep;

And happy-till love in her bosom had sought
A birth-place, and left her to weep.

When the halls of old Sarnia echoed the song,
And the dance and the music were there;
When pleasure and revelry reign'd in the throng,
Fair Rosa would sigh in despair;

Yet once would her presence give bliss to the spot
Where the hours did in revelry fly;

Yet soon were her name and her presence forgot,
And alone she unheeded would sigh.

The roses of health and of beauty soon fled,
Youth's noon was benighted with care;
Old Sarnia's sepulchre yawned for the dead,
The priest with his missal stood there;

And peaceful and lone in the dark house she sleeps,
Where love enters not to annoy,

And nought save the wind o'er the dismal spot weeps ;
But Rosa will waken in joy.

THERE'S A THRILL OF EMOTION.

Music by Peter M'Leod, Esq.

THERE'S a thrill of emotion, half painful half sweet, When the object of untold affection we meet,

But the pleasure remains, though the pang is as brief As the touch and recoil of the sensitive leaf.

There's a thrill of distress, between anger and dread, When a frown o'er the fair face of beauty is spread; But she smiles-and away the disturber is borne, Like sunbeams dispelling the vapours of morn.

There's a thrill of endearment, all raptures above, When the pure lip imprints the first fond kiss of love! Which, like songs of our childhood, to memory clings; The longest, the last, of terrestrial things.

E. CONOLLY.

SCOTLAND'S GUID AULD CHANNEL STANE.1

AIR-"Highland Harry."

OF a' the games that e'er I saw,

Man, callant, laddie, birkie, wean,
The bravest far aboon them a',

Was aye the witching Channel Stane !

O for the Channel Stane !

The fell gude game, the Channel Stane!

There's no a game amang them a',

Can match auld Scotand's Channel Stane !

I've played at quoiting i' my day,

And maybe I may do't again,

But still unto mysel' I'd say,

O this is no the Channel Stane!
O for, etc.

I've been at bridals unca glad;
In courting lassies wondrous fain;
But what was a' the fun I've had,
Comparit wi' the Channel Stane!
O for, etc.

I Another name for the Curling Stone.

Were I a sprite in yonder sky,

Never to come back again,

I'd sweep the mune an' starlits by,

And beat them at the Channel Stane.
O for, etc.

We'd boom across the Milky Way,

One tee should be the Northern Wain,
Another bright Orion's ray,

A comet for a Channel Stane!

AIR-"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal."

THE poets, what fools they're to deave us,
How ilka ane's lassie's sae fine;

The first ane's an angel, and, save us!
The neist ane you meet wi's divine;
An' then there's a lang-nebbit sonnet,
Be't Katie, or Janet, or Jean;
An' the moon or some far awa' planet's
Compared to the blink o' her een.

The earth an' the sea they've ransackit
For figures to set aff their charms,
An' no a wee flower but's attackit
By poets, like bumbees in swarms.
What signifies now a' this clatter

By chiels that the truth winna tell?
Wad it no be settlin' the matter

To say-Lass, ye're just like yoursel' ?

An' then there's nae end to the evil,
For they are no deaf to the din,
That, like me, ony puir luckless deevil
Daur scarce look the gate they are in!
But e'en let them be wi' their scornin',
There's a lassie whase name I could tell,
Her smile is as sweet as the mornin',
But whisht! I am ravin' mysel'.

But he that o' ravin''s convickit,

When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on,
May he ne'er get anither strait jacket
Than that buckled on by Mess John!
An' he wha, though cautious an' canny,
The charms o' the fair never saw,
Though wise as king SOLOMON's grannie,
I swear is the daftest of a'.

THE LOSS OF THE ROEBUCK.

How oft by the lamp of the pale waning moon,
Would Kitty steal out from the eye of the town;
On the beach as she stood, when the wild waves would roll,
Her eye shed a torrent just fresh from the soul;
And, as o'er the ocean the billows would stray,
Her sighs follow after as moaning as they.

I saw, as the ship to the harbour drew near,

Hope redden her cheek, then it blanch'd with chill fear;