Or birds upon the boughs awake,

Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake!

She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon,
And from her home by Preston burn

Came forth, the rival light of morn.

The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now hush-
The gold-spink answered from the bush-
The plover, fed on heather crop,

Call'd from the misty mountain top.

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery grey,

To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake-
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon caroling lark?

Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue

The warning precept of her song?

Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love-
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

THE POET'S MORNING.

JAMES HOGG.

Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew;
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken-
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!

Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Deep the morn her draught has taken
Of the babbling rivulet sheen,
Far beyond the Ochel green;

From her gauzy veil on high,
Trills the laverock's melody;

Round and round, from glen and grove,
Pour a thousand hymns to love.

The quail harps loud amid the clover, From the mountain whirrs the plover; Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed, Courser neigh'd, and cattle lowed;

Swifter still the dawn advances,

In the light the wood-fly dances;
See, the sun is on the billow-

Rouse thee, slumberer, from thy pillow!

Wake thee-life is but a day,

Gay its morn, and short as gay;

Day of evil-day of sorrow,

Hope, bright hope, can paint no morrow;

Noon shall find thee faint and weary,
Night shall find thee pale and dreary-
Rise, O rise! to toil betake thee-

Wake thee, drowsy slumberer, wake thee.

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Cauld winter is awa', my love,

And spring is in her prime;
The breath of Heaven stirs a' to life,
The grasshoppers to chime.
The birds canna contain themsel's

Upon the sprouting tree,
But loudlie, loudlie sing of love:

A theme which pleaseth me.

The gowdspink woos in gentle note,

And ever singeth he,

Come here, come here, my spousal dame !— A theme which pleaseth me.

What says the sangster rose-linnet?
His breast is beating high,

Come here, come here, my ruddie mate,
The way of love to try!

The lavrock calls his freckled mate,

Frae near the sun's ee-bree,

Make on the knowe, our nest, my

A theme which pleaseth me.

love!

The hares hae brought forth twins, my love,

Sae has the cushat doo;

The raven croaks a softer way,

His sooty love to woo:

And nought but love, love breathes around

Frae hedge, frae field, and tree,

Soft whispering love to Jeanie's heart:

A theme which pleaseth me.

O lassie is thy heart mair hard
Than mavis on the bough;

Say, maun the hale creation wed,

And Jean remain to woo?
Say, has the holie lowe of love
Ne'er lighten'd in your ee?
O! if thou canstna feel for pain,
Thou art nae theme for me!

THE BLACK COCK.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Good morrow to thy sable beak,
And glossy plumage, dark and sleek;
Thy crimson moon and azure eye,
Cock of the heath, so wildly shy!
I see thee slily cowering through
That wiry web of silver dew,
That twinkles in the morning air
Like casement of my lady fair.

A maid there is in yonder tower,
Who, peeping from her early bower,
Half shows, like thee, with simple wile,
Her braided hair and morning smile.
The rarest things, with wayward will,
Beneath the covert hide them still;
The rarest things, to light of day
Look shortly forth and shrink away.