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GLOOMY WĮVIER.

GLOOMY winter's now awa',

Saft the westlin' breezes blaw:
'Mang the birks o' Stanley-shaw
The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O.
Sweet the craw-flower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,

Blooming like thy bonny sel',
My young, my artless dearie, O.

Come, my lassie, let us stray
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blythely spend the gowden day

'Midst joys that never wearie, O. Towering o'er the Newton woods, Laverocks fan the snaw-white clouds;

Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,
Adorn the banks sae brierie, O.

Round the sylvan fairy nooks,

Feath'ry braikens fringe the rocks, 'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheerie, O.

Trees may bud, and birds may sing,

Flowers may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O.

THE LANEXT OF WALLACE,

AFTER THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK.

THOU dark winding Carron, once pleasing to see,
To me thou can'st never give pleasure again;
My brave Caledonians lie low on the lea,

And thy streams are deep-ting'd with the blood of the slain.
Ah! base-hearted treachery has doom'd our undoing,—
My poor bleeding country, what more can I do?
Even valor looks pale c'er the red field of ruin,
And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low.

Farewell, ye dear partners of peril! farewell!

Though buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave, Your deeds shall ennoble the place where ye fell, And your names be enroll'd with the sons of the brave! But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander,

Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die!

On thy wrongs, O my country! indignant I ponder— Ah! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly!

THE MALLAE'S SOKE.

HARK! 'tis the poor maniac's song;

She sits on yon wild craggy steep, And while the winds mournfully whistle along, She wistfully looks o'er the deep;

And aye she sings, "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!" To hush the rude billows asleep.

She looks to yon rock far at sea,

And thinks it her lover's white sail,

The warm tear of joy glads her wild glist'ning eye, As she beckons his vessel to hail:

And aye she sings, "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!" And frets at the boisterous gale.

Poor Susan was gentle and fair,

Till the seas robb'd her heart of its joy; Then her reason was lost in the gloom of despai And her charms then did wither and die; And now her sad "Lullaby, lullaby, lullaby!" Oft wakes the lone passenger's sigh.

JOHN LEYDEN.

1775-1811

LITERATURE has seldom to mourn more truly over genius early blighted by death than in the case of John Leyden. He was the son of humble parents, and born at Denholm, on the banks of the Teviot in Roxburghshire. His powerful talents, while he was yet young, amassed a singular amount of classical and oriental literature. He was destined for the church, but suddenly exchanged his profession for that of medicine, on a prospect of obtaining an appointment in the East. He proceeded to India, and acted in different capacities in various quarters of that country for several years, hiving up daily stores of oriental learning. In 1811 Leyden accompanied the governor-general to Java. His spirit of romantic adventure led him literally to rush upon death; for with another volunteer who attended the expedition, he threw himself into the surf, in order to be the first Briton of the expedition who should set foot in Java. When the success of the well-concerted movements of the invaders had given them possession of the town of Batavia, Leyden displayed the same ill-omened precipitation in his haste to examine a library, or rather a warehouse of books, in which many Indian manuscripts were said to be deposited. A library in a Dutch settlement was not, as might have been expected, in the best order, the apartment had not been regularly ventilated, and either from this circumstance, or already affected by the fatal sickness peculiar to Batavia, Leyden, when he left the place, declared the atmosphere was enough to give any mortal a fever. The presage was too just, he took to his bed, and died in three days (Aug. 28, 1811) on the eve of the battle that gave Java to the British Empire.

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