But now the sun hath bade the world good night, And gathering darkness warns me to my home.
ON the old forest, bright the sunrays play, And from the boughs hang, tinging the green leaves With golden light that downward interweaves, Past branch and stem finding itself a way; And on the greensward, and among the fern, Some trace of sunshine still we can discern, A sunbeam's scattered droppings gone astray Among the wild-flowers, where they nestle close Within the long grass, or the woodland moss, Making for Earth a dress with colours gay. Oh! on our pathway thus may sunshine fall, And like the little flowers, our hopes still bloom,-- A share of it at least, if not it all,-- To light the darkness and to cheer the gloom.
AT e'ening whan the kye war in, An' lasses milking thrang, A neebour laird cam ben the byre, The busy maids amang. He stood ahint the routin' kye An' round him glowered a wee, Then stole to whar young Peggy sat, The milkpail at her knee.
"Sweet Peggy, lass," thus spoke the laird, "Wilt listen to my tale?" "Stan' out the gate, laird," Peggy cried, "Or you will coup the pail: "Mind, Hawkie here's a timorous beast, An' no acquent wi you." "Ne'er fash," quo' he, "the milking time's The sweetest time to woo.
"Ye ken, I've aften tauld ye that I've thretty kye and mair, "An' ye'd be better owning them Than sittin' milkin' there. "My house is bein, and stocket weel In hadden and in ha', "An' ye've but just to sae the word Tae leddy be o' a'."
"Wheesht, laird," quo Peggy, "dinna mak' Yersel a fule an' me, "I thank ye, for yer offer kind, But sae it canna be. "Maybe yer weel stocked house and farm, An' thretty lowing kine, "May win some ither lassie's heart, They hae nae charms for mine;
"For in the kirk I hae been cried, My troth is pledged and sworn, "An' tae the man I like mysel', I'll married be the morn'." The laird, dumfoundered at her words, Had nae mair will to try'r; But turned, and gaed far faster out, Than he'd come in the byre.
_Presented by the Prince De Moskwa to Donald Sinclair, Esq. Edinburgh._
THERE stands the hero, "bravest of the brave," A name well earned, that he to whom alone NEY, second, scarce to him, in glory shone, After a hard fought day in honour gave: And ever shall his laurels greenly wave,-- Still flourishing with time, for time can ne'er Blight his deserved renown not even _there_,-- Over his bloody and untimely grave.