O MITHER MITHER! LET ME BE.

O mither! mither! let me be,
And let me, dowie, lie my lane;
I canna bend a waukrife ee-

I can but greet sin' Jamie's gane!
The simmer buds are on the lea,
The simmer sun is glintin' fair;
But nocht can simmer bring to me-
Ilk new-born day's but new despair.

O mither! mither! let me dee,

My waefu' heart will break fu' sune ;-
I canna' lift a pray'r for thee,

Nor fix my thochts on Heav'n abune.
O bury me aneath the tree

That aft has heard his vows o' guile;
And ne'er may Jeanie's misery
Be tauld to rob him o' a smile!

LUCY'S FLITTIN'.

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 neebours sae dear:

For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer;

She cam there afore the flower blumed on the pea ; An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her, Sure that was the thing brocht the tear to her ee. She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin'; Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see: 6 Fare ye weel, Lucy!' quo' Jamie, and ran in;

The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his ee. As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her 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.

'Oh, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my ee?
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 puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither,

Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my ee.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
The bonny blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his ee.

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 its 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!

["It is a somewhat remarkable circumstance regarding this exquisitely pathetic and beautiful little poem, that its author has written hardly any other thing of any description."-CHAMBERS.

William Laidlaw, the author of this beautiful song, was the valued friend and steward of Sir Walter Scott; but since the death of the great minstrel, and disarrangement of the Abbotsford estate, he has been employed, much I hear to his mind, by the ancient and noble family of Seaforth. It is of Laidlaw that an anecdote of Sir Walter on his return from Naples during his last illness has been told. Scott it is said recognized few or none of his friends or relations after he left London, and from Edinburgh to Abbotsford lay in the chariot like to one as dead-but seeing Laidlaw near him at his bed-side, he said, his eyes brightening at the time, "Is that you Willie? I ken I'm hame noo."]

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearing awa, Jean,

Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;
I'm wearing awa, Jean,

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean,

There's nae cauld there, Jean,
The day is aye fair, Jean,
In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task's ended now, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Our bonny bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean,
And we grudged her right sair
To the land o' the leal.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.

Now, fare ye well, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean,
We'll meet and aye be fain
In the land o' the leal.

KELVIN GROVE.

JOHN LYLE.

Let us haste to Kelvin grove, bonnie lassie, O;
Through its mazes let us rove, bonnie lassie, O
Where the rose in all its pride

Decks the hollow dingle's side,

;

Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O.

We will wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O,
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O;
Where the glens rebound the call

Of the lofty waterfall,

Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O.

Then we'll up to yonder glade, bonnie lassie, O,
Where so oft, beneath its shade, bonnie lassie, O,
With the songsters in the grove,

We have told our tale of love,

And have sportive garlands wove, bonnie lassie, O.

Ah! I soon must bid adieu, bonnie lassie, O,
To this fairy scene and you, bonnie lassie, O,
To the streamlet winding clear,

To the fragrant-scented brier,

E'en to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O.

For the frowns of fortune low'r, bonnie lassie, O,
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O :
Ere the golden orb of day,

Wakes the warblers from the spray,

From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O.

And when on a distant shore, bonnie lassie, O, Should I fall 'midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O, Wilt thou, Helen, when you hear

Of thy lover on his bier,

To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie ? O.

["Kelvin Grove is a beautifully wooded dell, about two miles from Glasgow, forming a sort of lovers' walk for the lads and lasses of that city."-CHAMBERS.]