Nor can the simplest here be at a loss,
Thanks to our great forefathers' pious care,
Who, shunning doctrines crude, and customs
gross,

Built up our church compact, a fabric fair;
With formularies rich beyond compare,
In all the elements of truth divine,
Especially the Shorter Compend, where,
Concise and neat, in each perspicuous line,
Great thoughts with simplest words felicitously
join.

Rang'd in due order, there the little ones-
A sight which seraphs stoop from heaven to see-—
Each in its gravest mood and firmest tone
The running question answers full and free.
Even he, the infant on his mother's knee,

A lisping lamiter of feeble frame, Distinguish'd as his elders, too, must be, To speak the Spirit's grace, the Saviour's fame, Although 'tis but by halves he can pronounce the name.

And one whose life seems drawing near the grave,

Darken'd her day, her nights with pain opprest, She too her cus om'd place and say must have, Leaning her head upon a sister's breast. A psalm, too, she has got as well's the rest, Though ears do now the want of eyes supply"How truly every humble soul is blest Who can by faith on Jacob's God rely, Who made and peopl'd earth, the sea, and heaven high.

"Who giveth, gracious, to the blind their sight,
And leads them by a way they do not know;
The bowed down doth make to walk upright,
And the pale cheek with roseate health to glow.
In whom compassions never ceasing flow,
And mercy reigns an attribute supreme,
Long-suffering, to aught like anger slow,
And bounteous in the trying hour extreme,
From all iniquity his Israel to redeem.”

Thus from the mouth of babes the song of praise
Ascends to heaven, at eve or dewy morn;
Hence honest honour, with unborrow'd rays,
In humble life the meanest may adorn.
Yes, oft the hind, thus taught, can laugh to

scorn

The varnish'd vices of the vulgar great,
And, on the wings of faith and reason borne,
Above the mists that cloud his mean estate,
Turn them to blessings rare the rigours of his fate.

Parental teaching clos'd with family prayer,
Each seeks, for soft repose, the peaceful bed;
The sire except, who, by the evening fair,
To muse along the greenwood side is led.
The setting sun, in robes of crimson red
And purple gorgeous, clothes the glowing west;
While sober eve, in misty mantle clad,

One bright star lovely beaming on her breast, With feet all bathed in dew, comes slowly from the east.

Now clos'd, the daisy droops its dewy head,Hush'd are the woods, the breathing fields are still,

And soft beneath the meadow's flowery pride
Creeps gurgling on its way the mossy rill.
Sublimely solemn rolls the mingling swell,
At times with many a mournful pause between,
Of streams rude, rushing down the sounding
dell,

Re-echo'd wide from distant wilds unseen, And lambs that softly bleat far o'er the flowery green.

THE SICK CHILD.

I pass'd the cot but yesterday, 'Twas neat and clean, its inmates gay, All pleas'd and pleasing, void of guile, Pursuing sport or healthful toil.

To-day the skies are far more bright, The woods pour forth more wild delight, The air seems all one living hum, And every leaflet breathes perfume.

Then why is silence in the cot,
Its wonted industry forgot,

The fire untrimmed, the floor unred,
The chairs with clothes and dishes spread,
While, all in woeful dishabille,

Across the floor the children steal?
Alas! these smothered groans! these sighs!
Sick, sick the little darling lies;
The mother, while its moan ascends,
Pale, o'er the cradle, weeping bends;
And, all absorbed in speechless woe,
The father round it paces slow.
Behind them close, with clasped hands,
The kindly village matron stands,
Bethinking what she shall direct;
For all night long, without effect,
Her patient care has been applied,
And all her various simples tried,
And glad were she could that be found
Would bring the baby safely round.

Meanwhile, the little innocent, To deeper moans gives ampler vent, Lifts up its meek but burden'd eye, As if to say, "Let me but die, For me your cares, your toils give o'er, To die in peace, I ask no more."

But who is there with aspect kind, Where faith, and hope, and love are joined, And pity sweet? The man of God, Who soothes, exhorts, in mildest mood, And to the pressure of the case Applies the promises of graceThen lifts his pleading voice and eye To Him enthron'd above the sky, Who, compass'd once with pains and fears, Utter'd strong cries, wept bitter tearsWhence still the sympathetic glow He feels for all his people's woeFor health restored, and length of days, To the sweet babe he humbly prays; But 'specially that he may prove An heir of faith, a child of love; That, when withdrawn from mortal eyes,

"Farewell, ye dear haunts o' the days o' my youth,

Ye woods and ye valleys sae fair;

Ye'll bloom when I wander abroad like a ghaist, Sair nidder'd wi' sorrow an' care.

Ye woods an' ye valleys, I part wi' a sigh,

While the flood gushes down frae my e'e; For never again shall the tear weet my cheek On the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

"O Time, could I tether your hours for a wee!
Na, na, for they flit like the wind!"
Sae I took my departure, an' saunter'd awa',
Yet aften look'd wistfu' behind.
Oh! sair is the heart of the mither to twin
Wi' the baby that sits on her knee;
But sairer the pang when I took a last peep
O' the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

I heftit 'mang strangers years thretty an' twa,
But naething could banish my care;
An' aften I sigh'd when I thought on the past,
Whar a' was sae pleasant an' fair.

But now, wae's my heart! whan I'm lyart an' auld,
An' fu' lint-white my haffet locks flee,
I'm hamewards return'd wi' a remnant o' life
To the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do ken
The haunts that were dear ance to me;
I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth,
An' the mavis now sings on the tree.

But, haith! there's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae;

For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee,

To think how at last my auld banes they will rest Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee.

MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE, 0.1

Thy check is o' the rose's hue,

My only jo and dearie, O; Thy neck is o' the siller dew

Upon the bank sae brierie, O. Thy teeth are o' the ivory;

O sweet's the twinkle o' thine ee; Nae joy, nae pleasure blinks on me, My only jo and dearie, O.

The birdie sings upon the thorn

Its sang o' joy fu' cheerie, O,

1 I remember when this song was exceedingly popular; its sweetness and ease, rather than its originality and vigour, might be the cause of its success. The third verse contains a very beautiful picture of early attachment-a sunny bank, and some sweet, soft school-girl, will appear to many a fancy when these lines are sung -Allan Cunningham.

Rejoicing in the simmer morn,
Nae care to mak' it eerie, 0;
Ah! little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the care I ha'e to meet,
That gars my restless bosom beat,
My only jo and dearie, O.

When we were bairnies on yon brae.

And youth was blinkin' bonnie, (), Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day,

Our joys fu' sweet and monie, O. Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lee, And round about the thorny tree; Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie, O.

I ha'e a wish I canna tine, 'Mang a' the cares that grieve me, 0, A wish that thou wert ever mine,

And never mair to leave me, 0; Then I would dawt thee night and day, Nae ither warldly care I'd hae, Till life's warm stream forgat to play, My only jo and dearie, O.

ON THE DEATH OF BURNS.

There's waefu' news in yon town,
As e'er the warld heard ava;
There's dolefu' news in yon town,

For Robbie's gane an' left them a'.

How blythe it was to see his face

Come keeking by the hallan wa'! He ne'er was sweir to say the grace, But now he's gane an' left them a'. He was the lad wha made them glad, Whanever he the reed did blaw; The lasses there may drap a tear, Their funny friend is now awa'.

Nae daffin now in yon town;

The browster-wife gets leave to draw An' drink hersel', in yon town, Sin' Robbie gaed and left them a'.

The lawin's canny counted now,

The bell that tinkled ne'er will draw, The king will never get his due,

Sin' Robbie gaed and left them a'.

The squads o' chiels that lo'ed a splore
On winter e'enings, never ca';
Their blythesome moments a' are o'er
Sin' Robbie's gane an' left them a'.

Frae a' the een in yon town

I see the tears o' sorrow fa', An' weel they may in yon town, Nae canty sang they hear ava.

Their e'ening sky begins to lour,

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu!

The murky clouds thegither draw; 'Twas but a blink afore a shower,

Ere Robbie gaed and left them a'.

The landwart hizzy winna speak;

Ye'll see her sitting like a craw Amang the reek, while rattons squeak-Her dawtit bard is now awa'.

But could I lay my hand upon

His whistle, keenly wad I blaw, An' screw about the auld drone, An' lilt a lightsome spring or twa.

If it were sweetest aye whan wat,
Then wad I ripe my pouch an' draw,
An' steep it weel amang the maut,

As lang's I'd saxpence at my ca'.

For warld's gear I dinna care,

My stock o' that is unco sma'. Come, friend, we'll pree the barley-bree To his braid fame that's now awa'.

FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!
Bonny Doon, sae sweet at gloamin',
Fare-thee-weel before I gang;
Bonny Doon, where, early roamin',
First I weaved the rustic sang.

Bowers, adieu! where, love decoying,

First enthrall'd this heart o' mine; There the saftest sweets enjoying, Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine. Friends sae near my bosom ever,

Ye hae render'd moments dear; But, alas! when forced to sever,

Then the stroke, O how severe! Friends, that parting tear reserve it, Though 'tis doubly dear to me; Could I think I did deserve it,

How much happier would I be. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew;

GLENDOCHART VALE.

As I came through Glendochart vale, Whar mists o'ertap the mountains gray, A wee bit lassie met my view,

As cantily she held her way; But O sic love each feature bore,

She made my saul wi' rapture glow!
An' aye she spake sae kind and sweet,
I couldna keep my heart in tow.

O speak na o' your courtly queans!
My wee bit lassie fools them a';
The little cuttie's done me skaith,

She's stown my thoughtless heart awa'. Her smile was like the gray-e'ed morn, Whan spreading on the mountain green; Her voice saft as the mavis' sang,

An' sweet the twinkle o' her een; Aboon her brow, sae bonnie brent, Her raven locks wav'd o'er her ee; An' ilka slee bewitching glance Conveyed a dart o' love to me.

O speak na o' your courtly queans, &c. The lasses fair in Scotia's isle,

Their beauties a' what tongue can tell? But o'er the fairest o' them a',

My wee bit lassie bears the bell. O had I never mark'd her smile, Nor seen the twinkle o' her ee! It might na been my lot the day A waefu' lade o' care to dree.

O speak na o' your courtly queans, &c.

I WINNA GANG BACK TO MY MAMMY
AGAIN.

I winna gang back to my mammy again,
I'll never gae back to my mammy again;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I've held by her apron, &c.

Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo,
Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue;
"O come awa', lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;"
An' I flew, wi' my laddie, o'er meadow an' glen.
"O come awa', lassie," &c.

He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo,
An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my

mou';