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MARY'S DREAM.

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My faither could na wark, my mither could na spin,
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I could na win;
Auld Rob maintain'd 'em baith, and wi' tears in his ee,
Said, “Jennie, for their sakes, oh marry me."

My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back,
But the wind it blew hard, and the ship was a wrack--
The ship was a wrack, why did na Jamie dee?
Or why was I spared to cry, Wae's me!

My faither urged me sair, my mither did na speak,
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break :
They gi'ed him my hand, though my heart was at sea, -
So auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me!

I had na been a wife a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully out at my door,
I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I could na think it he,
Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, to marry thee."

Sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say, -
We took but ae kiss, and tare oursels away:
I wish I were dead, but I am na lik' to dee,-
Oh, why was I born to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, but I care not to spin;
I dare not think on Jamie, for that would be a sin;
So I will do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.

LADY ANNE BARXARD.

Mary's Dream.

Tue moon had climbed the highest hill

Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree,

When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and slow, a voice was heard,

Saying, “Mary, weep no more for me!”

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be, And saw young Sandy shivering stand,

With visage pale, and hollow e'e. “O Mary dear, cold is my clay ;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

“Three stormy nights and stormy days

We tossed upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,

But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chilled my blood,

My heart was filled with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

“O maiden dear, thyself prepare;

We soon shall meet upon that shore,
Where love is free from doubt and care,

And thou and I shall part no more!”
Loud crowed the cock, the shadow fled,

No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,
'Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!'

JOHN Lowe.

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Uhat is Time?

I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs,
Wrinkled and curved with worldly cares :

WHAT IS TIME ?

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“Time is the warp of life,” said he; “O, tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!”
I asked the ancient, venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled:
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode!”
I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide

Of life had left his veins: “ Time!” he replied; “I've lost it! ah, the treasure!”—and he died.

I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years:
They answered, " Time is but a meteor glare,”
And bade me for eternity prepare.
I asked the Seasons, in their annual round,
Which beautify or desolate the ground;

And they replied (no oracle more wise),
“'Tis Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest prize!”
I asked a spirit lost,—but O the shriek
That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak.
It cried, " A particle! a speck! a mite
Of endless years, duration infinite!”
Of things inanimate, my dial I

Consulted, and it made me this reply,– “Time is the season fair of living well,

The path of glory or the path of hell.”
I asked my Bible, and methinks it said,
“Time is the present hour, the past has fled;
Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet
On any human being rose or set.”
I asked old Father Time himself at last;
But in a moment he flew swiftly past,
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind.
I asked the mighty angel who shall stand

One foot on sea and one on solid land:
“Mortal!” he cried, “the mystery now is o'er;
Time was, Time is, but Time shall be no more!”

WILLIAM MARSDEN.

The Groves of Blarney.

The groves of Blarney, they look so charming,

Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks, All decked with posies, that spontaneous grow there,

Planted in order in the rocky nooks. 'T is there the daisy, and the sweet ca

carnation, The blooming pink, and the rose so fair; Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly

All flowers that scent the sweet, open air.

'T is Lady Jaffers owns this plantation,

Like Alexander, or like IIelen fair;
There 's no commander in all the nation

For regulation can with her compare.
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder

Could ever plunder her place of strength;
But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel,

And made a breach in her battlement.

There 's gravel walks there for speculation,

And conversation in sweet solitude;
'T is there the lover may hear the dove, or

The gentle plover, in the afternoon.
And if a young lady should be so engaging

As to walk alone in those shady bowers,
'T is there her courtier, he may transport her

In some dark port, or under ground.

For 't is there is the cave where no daylight enters,

But bats and badgers are forever bred;
Being mossed by natur' which makes it sweeter

Than a coach and six, or a feather bed.
'T is there 's the lake that is stored with perches,

And comely eels in the verdant mud; Besides the leeches, and the groves of beeches,

All standing in order for to guard the flood.

HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.

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'T is there 's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in,

With the maids a-stitching upon the stair ; The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey,

Would make you frisky if you were there. 'T is there you 'd see Peg Murphy's daughter

A washing praties forenent the door, With Roger Cleary, and Father Healy,

All blood relations to my Lord Donoughmore.
There's statues gracing this noble place in,

All heathen goddesses so fair-
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,

All standing naked in the open air.
So now to finish this brave narration,

Which my poor geni' could not entwine; But were I Homer, or Nebuchadnezzar, 'T is in every feature I would make it shine.

RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKEN.

Welen of Kirkconnel.

I wish I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries,
And, like an angel, to the skies

Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sigh’d,
For me she wish'd to be a bride,
For me in life's sweet morn she died

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!
Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind

Took deadly aim at me.
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low,

On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

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