Hear me, Powers divine!
Oh, in pity hear me !

Take aught else of mine,
But my Chloris spare me!

THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE.

TUNE-Humours of Glen.

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the

perfume;

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk wild daisy lowly unseen:

For there, lightly tripping amang the wildflowers,

A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave, Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,

What are they?—the haunt of the tyrant and slave!

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,

Save Love's willing fetters the chains o'

his Jean!

"TWAS NA HER BONNY BLUE E'E WAS MY RUIN.

TUNE-Laddie, lie near me.

'Twas na her bonny blue e'e was my ruin; Fair though she be, that was ne'er my undo

ing:

'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' stolen kindness.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; But though fell fortune should fate us to

sever,

Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever!

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dear

est;

And thou'rt the angel that never can alter ;
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter.

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS!

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG.

TUNE- John Anderson, my Jo.

How cruel are the parents
Who riches only prize,
And to the wealthy booby,
Poor woman sacrifice!

Meanwhile, the hapless daughter

Has but a choice of strife;

To shun a tyrant father's hate,
Become a wretched wife.

The ravening hawk pursuing,
The trembling dove thus flies,
To shun impelling ruin
Awhile her pinions tries:
Till of escape despairing,

No shelter or retreat,

She trusts the ruthless falconer,
And drops beneath his feet.

May, 1795.

MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY

FASHION.

TUNE Deil tak the Wars.

MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion
Round the wealthy, titled bride;
But when compared with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures?

What are the noisy pleasures?

The gay gaudy glare of vanity and art:

The polished jewel's blaze

May draw the wondering gaze,

And courtly grandeur bright

The fancy may delight,

But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,

In simplicity's array;

Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is,

Shrinking from the gaze of day;

Oh then, the heart alarming,

And all resistless charming,

In Love's delightful fetters she chains the will ing soul!

Ambition would disown

The world's imperial crown,

Even Avarice would deny

His worshipped deity,

And feel through every vein Love's raptures

roll.

May, 1795.