The rosebud, washed in summer's shower, To see her cousin she cam there, Oh, lang the lassie I had woo'd! I pointed to my father's ha', Sae loun' that there nae blast could blaw; Her faither was baith glad and wae; She whiles did smile, she whiles did greet, HE'S OWER THE HILLS THAT I LOVE WEEL. He's ower the hills that I lo'e weel, Wha soon will get his welcome hame. My father's gane to fight for him, The Whigs may scoff, the Whigs may jeer; He's ower the hills, &c. His right these hills, his right these plains: Ower Hieland hearts secure he reigns; What lads e'er did our laddies will do; Were I a laddie, I'd follow him too. He's ower the hills, &c. Sae noble a look, sae princely an air, Then draw the claymore, for Charlie then fight; THE ATTAINTED SCOTTISH NOBLES. Oh, some will tune their mournfu' strains, They'll dry upon the morrow. Ye Scottish nobles, ane and a', A nameless bardie's wae to see Your sorrows unlamented; For old hereditary right, For conscience' sake they stoutly stood; And for the crown their valiant sons Themselves have shed their injured blood; And if their fathers ne'er had fought For heirs of ancient royalty, They're down the day that might hae been At the top o' honour's tree a' WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN? Would you be young again? So would not I- Life's dark flood forded o'er, Say, would you plunge once more, ALEXANDER BALFOUR, the author of four | 1814 he removed to the vicinity of Dunde volumes of poetry and sixteen of prose, besides contributions to periodicals which would fill an equal number, was born in the parish of Monikie, Forfarshire, March 1, 1767. From his native place, where he learned weaving, and latterly taught a school, he removed in 1793 to Arbroath. He was first employed as a clerk, and afterwards carried on business as a merchant and manufacturer. In the year to superintend a branch of a London hous overseer of the Balgonie Spinning Mills in | periodicals which would fill an equal number." Fifeshire, from whence he removed with his Two of his poetical volumes, entitled, Contemfamily to Edinburgh in October, 1818, to enter plation and other Poems, and Characters upon the uncertain career of a man of letters. Omitted in Crabbe's Parish Register, were From his earliest youth Balfour displayed respectively published in 1820 and 1825. A a talent for composition, by occasionally con- few months after his death a selection appeared tributing to the papers and periodicals of the of his fugitive pieces in prose and verse, under day. Several of his poems were transmitted the title of Weeds and Wild Flowers. The to James Sibbald, and by him published in volume was enriched by a tastefully written the Edinburgh Magazine, of which he was the memoir from the pen of Dr. Moir, the Delta of editor and proprietor. His first attempts were Blackwood's Magazine, which concludes with made at the age of twelve, the period of life the following just and beautiful tribute to his when Pope and Cowley began to indite verses, laborious literary life: "To his grave Mr. Baland when almost all men of genius seem to four carried the admiration of many-the show sparklings of what they are afterwards respect of all who knew him; and of his writto be. From the date of his arrival in the ings, it may be affirmed with equal truth as of Scottish capital until his death, September 12, those of Thomson, that he left no line, which 1829, his time was wholly devoted to literary | dying he could wish to blot."" pursuits. During that period," says his biographer, "when palsy had deprived him of his locomotive powers, crippled his hand-writing, and nearly deprived him of speech, he composed four volumes of poetry, and sixteen volumes of prose, besides pieces in a variety of In conclusion, it is pleasant to record that, in consequence of an earnest application made in Balfour's behalf by Joseph Hume, M. P., Canning conferred on the poet a treasury donation of one hundred pounds, in consideration of his genius, industry, and misfortunes. STANZAS. (Written at midnight, 31st December, 1828.) Hark! Time has struck the midnight bell, Is it because the sire's deposed That thus they hail the new-born son? Or, that life's lease is nearer closed, Their ebbing sands still nearer run? Just now they wildly lift their voice Some twelve months hence, when he's exiled. And some will laud, and some revile, For some will sigh, of friends bereaved, Those long possessed and dearly loved; While others mourn o'er hopes deceived; And some rejoice, their fears removed. And some, with retrospective eye, Behind a lingering look will cast; Will fondly gaze on scenes gone by, And vainly sigh for pleasures past. Others will calmly look before, Long tossed on life's tempestuous wave; By faith and hope will view the shore, The haven of rest, beyond the grave. And some will glide along the stream, Insensible to joy or care: To eat and drink, and doze and dream, The highest bliss their souls can share. Intiring, many will pursue The pleasures wealth and power impart; By day and night their toils renew, And clasp them closer to the heart. Alas! it is a bootless chase, And vainly we with time contend; We shall be distanced in the race, And breathless to the grave descend. The hand that pens this simple rhyme Already wants its wonted skill; Enfeebled now by age and time, Shall soon in death lie cold and still. Reader, does youth light up thine eye? It sparkled once as bright in mine; And though the days are long gone by, My heart was once as light as thine. Perhaps the cup of love and joy, Thy raptured heart delights to sip; But fate may soon that bliss destroy, Untimely snatch it from thy lip. Art thou the child of many woes, Long wandering in life's dreary gloom? The hour is near that brings repose, The dreamless slumber of the tomb. If young, the lengthen'd train of years, The boundless landscape, spread before, An endless vista now appears— A halcyon sea, without a shore. If old, perhaps you look behind, And pensive, muse on what has been; Though not without surprise, to find How time has changed the fairy scene. The prospect, once so fair and vast, Now dwindled to a point will seem; And you, like me, will feel at least, That life is but a morning dream. SLIGHTED LOVE. The rosebud blushing to the moru, Were ne'er sae fair as thee, Mary! Though gear was scant, an' friends were few, That glanced sae saft on me, Mary! For ever wait on thee, Mary! For me, nae mair on earth I crave, Forgot my love, an' thee, Mary! |