“The bridegroom may forget the bride, Was made his wedded wife yestreen; The monarch may forget the crown

That on his head an hour has been; The mother may forget the child

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee; But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,

And a' that thou hast done for me!"

HIGHLAND MARY.

YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There, Simmer, first unfauld your robes, summer, unfold

And there the langest tarry;

longest

For there I took the last fareweel

O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

birch

As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie:
For dear to me, as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;

many

full

And, pledging aft to meet again,

oft

We tore oursel's asunder;

But oh! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,

That wraps my Highland Mary!

80

cold

O pale, pale now,

those rosy lips,

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for aye the sparkling glance,

That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mould'ring now in silent dust,

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary

John Mayne.

Born 1761

Died 1836.

BORN of humble parents in Dumfries, in 1761, Mayne showed considerable ability in poetical composition in his sixteenth year, when he began his "Siller Gun," which was improved and enlarged in many successive editions. He is also the author of "Logan Braes," "Helen of Kirkland," &c. Mayne raised himself to a position of influence in London, where he resided for the latter part of his life.

LOGAN BRAES.

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep;
Herded sheep and gathered slaes,
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart, thae days are gane;
And I wi' grief may herd alane,

While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Nae mair at Logan Kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me;
Meet wi' me, or, when it's mirk,
Convoy me home frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane:
Frae kirk and fair I come alane;
While my dear lad maun face his facs,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dauner out and sit alane;
Sit alane beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me.
Oh! could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless and my ain!
Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes!

Joanna Baillie.

Born 1762.

Died 1851.

MISS BAILLIE was the daughter of a clergyman of the Church of Scotland, in Bothwell, Lanarkshire. In early life she with her sister Agnes removed to London, where their brother, Sir Matthew Baillie, was settled as a physician. She is the author of various plays, one of which was acted on the stage; she also wrote some poems and Scottish songs, which have been much admired. She led a retired life, and died at Hampstead in 1851.

PICTURE OF A COUNTRY LIFE.

Even now methinks

Each little cottage of my native vale

Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof,
Like to a hillock moved by labouring mole,
And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls,
Roses and every gay and fragrant plant
Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower,
Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell.
Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed
The flowers grow not too close; and there within
Thou'lt see some half-a-dozen rosy brats,
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk-
Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not
Their very forms distinctly?

I'll gather round my board
All that Heaven sends to me of way-worn folks,
And noble travellers, and neighbouring friends.
Both young and old. Within my ample hall,
The worn-out man of arms shall o' tiptoe tread,
Tossing his grey locks from his wrinkled brow
With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats
Of days gone by. Music we'll have; and oft
The bickering dance upon our oaken floors
Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear
Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly bend
Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din.
Solemn, and grave, and cloistered, and demure
We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels ?
Every season

Shall have its suited pastime; even winter,
In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow