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LOGAN BRAES.

JOHN MAYNE, ESQ.

By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep;
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But waes 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 whan its mirk,
Convoy me hame 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 faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes!

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dauner dowie and forlane;
I sit alane, beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me.
O! cou'd I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain!
Belov'd by friends, rever'd by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

THE SAILOR'S LADY.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Come busk you gallantlie,
Busk and make you ready,

Maiden, busk and come,

And be a sailor's lady.

The foamy ocean's ours,

From Hebride to Havannah,

And thou shalt be my queen,

And reign upon it, Anna.

See my bonnie ship,

So stately and so steady; Thou shalt be my queen,

And she maun be my lady:

The west wind in her wings,

The deep sea all in motion,

Away she glorious goes,

And crowns me king of ocean.

The merry lads are mine,

From Thames, and Tweed, and Shannon;

The Bourbon flowers grow pale

When I hang out my pennon;

I'll win thee gold and gems,

With pike and cutlass clashing,
With all my broad sails set,

And all my cannon flashing.

Come with me and see

The golden islands glowing,
Come with me and hear

The flocks of India lowing:
Thy fire shall be of spice,

The dews of eve drop manna,

Thy chamber floor of gold,

And men adore thee, Anna.

THE EXILE OF ERIN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing,
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill;
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion
sung the bold anthem of Erin go Bragh.

He

Sad is

my
fate! said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers

Where my fore-fathers liv'd shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go Bragh.

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more. Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me,

They died to defend me, or live to deplore.

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did you weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that look'd on my childhood?

And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all ?
Oh, my sad heart! long abandon'd by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?
Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw,

Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing,

Land of my forefathers-Erin go Bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean,

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion Erin mavourneen, Erin go Bragh!

SATURDAY'S SUN.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile
On one who is weary and worn with his toil !-
Warmer is the kiss which his kind wife receives,
Fonder the look to his bonnie bairns he gives;
His gude mother is glad, though her race is nigh run,
To smile wi' the weans at the setting of the sun :
The voice of prayer is heard, and the holy psalm tune,--
Wha wadna be glad when the sun gangs down?

Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow; Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown frae thy e'e,

Thou art fairer and dearer than ever to me.

I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine

On a form half so fair or a face so divine;

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