LUCY'S FLIIIIX'.

WILLIAM LAIDLAW.

'TWAS when the wan leaf frae the birk tree was fa'in, And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year,

That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,

And left her auld maister and neebors sae dear: For Lucy had served in the glen a' the simmer;

She cam' there afore the flower bloomed on the pea; An orphan was she, and they had been kind till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see: "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" quo Jamie and ran in ;

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e. As down the burnside she gaed slow wi' the flittin', "Fare ye weel, Lucy!" was ilka bird's sang; She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin', And robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang.

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Oh, what is't that puts my puir heart in a flutter, And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e,

If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the pure lammie can see;
I fear I ha'e tint my puir heart a' thegither,
Nae wonder the tears fa' sae fast frae my e'e.

"Wi' the rest o' my claes I ha'e row'd up the ribbon,
The bonnie blue ribbon that Jamie gave me ;
Yestreen, when he ga'e me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.

Though now he said naething but 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!'
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He could nae say mair but just 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!'
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee."

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when it's droukit ; The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea: But Lucy likes Jamie, she turn'd and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!

ODE TO LEVEY-WATER.

SMOLLETT.

ON Leven's banks, while free to rove,

And tune the rural pipe to love,
I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod the Arcadian plain.

Pure stream, in whose transparent wave

My youthful limbs I wont to lave;
No torrents stain thy limpid source,
No rocks impede thy dimpling course,
That sweetly warbles o'er its bed,
With white, round, polished pebbles spread;
While, lightly poised, the scaly brood
In myriads cleave thy crystal flood;
The springing trout in speckled pride,
The salmon, monarch of the tide;
The ruthless pike, intent on war,
The silver eel, and mottled par,
Devolving from thy parent lake,
A charming maze thy waters make,
By bowers of birch, and groves of pine

And edges flowered with eglantine.

Still on thy banks so gaily green,

May numerous herds and flocks be seen,
And lasses chanting o'er the pail,

And shepherds piping in the dale;
And ancient faith that knows no guile,
And industry embrowned with toil;
And hearts resolved, and hands prepared,
The blessings they enjoy to guard!

THE FA' O' THE YEAR.

THOMAS SMIBERT.

AFORE the Lammas' tide had dun'd the birken-tree,

In a' our water-side nae wife was blest like me;
A kind gudeman, and twa sweet bairns were round me here;
But they're ta'en a' awa', sin' the fa' o' the year.

Sair trouble cam' our gate, an' made me, when it cam', A bird without a mate, a ewe without a lamb.

Our hay was yet to maw, and our corn was to shear, When they a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year.

I downa look a-field, for aye I trow I see

The form that was a bield to my wee bairns and me;

But wind, and weet, and snaw, they never mair can fear, Sin' they a' got the ca' in the fa' o' the year.

Aft on the hill at e'ens I see him amang the ferns,
The lover o' my teens, the faither o' my bairns;
For there his plaid I saw as gloamin' aye drew near-
But my a's now awa' sin' the fa' o' the year.

Our bonny rigs theirsel' reca' my waes to mind,

Our puir dumb beasties tell o' a' that I hae tyned;
For wha our wheat will saw, and wha our sheep will shear,
Sin' my a' gaed awa' in the fa' o' the year?

My hearth is growing cauld, and will be caulder still; And sair, sair in the fauld will be the winter's chill; For peats were yet to ca'-our sheep were yet to smear, When my a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year.

I ettle whiles to spin, but wee, wee patterin' feet
Come rinnin' out and in, and then I just maun greet:
I ken it's fancy a', and faster rows the tear,
That my a' dwined awa' in the fa' o' the year.

Be kind, O Heav'n abune! to ane sae wae and lane,
And tak' her hamewards sune, in pity o' her mane;
Lang ere the March winds blaw, may she, far far frae here,
Meet them a' that's awa' sin' the fa' o' the year.