"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, We stappit ben, while Maggie's face An', as for me, I could hae crept 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, The gawky sisters four, A winter's nicht for me they micht 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, When each bird had for pleasure forsaken the nest, Yet ev'n she was lovely as e'er was the thought And happy-till love in her bosom had sought When the halls of old Sarnia echoed the song, Yet once would her presence give bliss to the spot Yet soon were her name and her presence forgot, The roses of health and of beauty soon fled, And peaceful and lone in the dark house she sleeps, And nought save the wind o'er the dismal spot weeps ; 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, 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! I've been at bridals unca glad; 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. We'd boom across the Milky Way, One tee should be the Northern Wain, A comet for a Channel Stane! AIR-"Fy, let us a' to the Bridal." THE poets, what fools they're to deave us, The first ane's an angel, and, save us! The earth an' the sea they've ransackit By chiels that the truth winna tell? To say-Lass, ye're just like yoursel' ? An' then there's nae end to the evil, But he that o' ravin''s convickit, When a bonnie sweet lass he thinks on, THE LOSS OF THE ROEBUCK. How oft by the lamp of the pale waning moon, I saw, as the ship to the harbour drew near, Hope redden her cheek, then it blanch'd with chill fear; |