Ben Dhu.

MARY.

OW saft sink the shadows when day, disappearing

HOW

Behind yon gray mountain, bids Tarland adieu! While clouds to the western horizon are steering,

And sunset's bright glories yet linger in view. O, fair fa' the gloaming when Mary is roaming, The cantie bit lassie that dearly I lo'e; O, fair fa' the gloaming, where torrents are foaming Adown the steep rocks on the braes o' Ben Dhu ! She treads the rich clover, where each painted roverBright butterflies-sported the lang simmer day; She plucks the red brier rose -the woodbine its lover, And twines her dark locks wi' the white-blossomed

May.

O, fair fà' the gloaming when Mary is roaming

Mid braw luckan gowans and harebells sae blue; O, fair fa' the gloaming, where torrents are foaming Adown the wild corries and craigs o' Ben Dhu! Amang the rough copsewood, across the green paling, Through meadow-sweet, fair as the pearl-bosomed

spray,

Where birches in tears are their fragrance exhaling, As light as the roe-deer she bounds on her way. O, fair fa' the gloaming when Mary is roaming,

Sae winsome and bonnie, sae gentle and true; My steps fly to meet her, and soon shall I greet her, — The joy of my fond heart! the pride of Ben Dhu! Maria Dorothea Ogilvy.

Ben Lomond.

BEN LOMOND.

HADST thou a genius on thy peak,

What tales, white-headed Ben,

Couldst thou of ancient ages speak,
That mock the historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives
Seem but so many hours;

And likens to the bees' frail hives
Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou 'st seen begun,
New creeds, new conquerors' sway;
And, like their shadows in the sun,
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied,
Unlike life's little span,

Looks down, a Mentor on the pride

Of perishable man.

Thomas Campbell.

TO BEN LOMOND.

S one long used by midnight lamp to pore

Spelling old marbles in this modern land,
To find the secret of Egyptian lore,

Betakes himself full-fraught to Nilus' shore,
And gazes, rapt, on tombs and temples vast,
To read the records of the mighty past,
But soon despairs and gives his purpose o'er;
Even so on thy magnificence years long

By day, by night, with rapture have I gazed,
O sovran Ben! that my soul might be raised,
And all my feelings kindled into song:
But vain the wish, when I attempt the theme,
My thoughts escape in air, and I but dream.

James Cochrane.

SOME

BEN LOMOND.

may delight to spend their hours,
By limpid streamlets fringed with flowers,
But give to me the wilds where towers
Thy rocky crest, Ben Lomond.

Through leafy groves young love may stray,
To sing the joys of rosy May,

But bolder tones must fire his lay

Whose theme's the proud Ben Lomond.

Dark clouds upon thy forehead rest,
Red lightnings play around thy crest,
And storm runs riot on thy breast,

Thou heed'st them not, Ben Lomond.

But when gay summer 's in her prime,
And balmy winds steal o'er our clime,

Who would not dare thy heights sublime
And glory in Ben Lomond !

There far above proud cities we

With wonder filled will lean on thee,

Awed by the gorgeous scenery

That round thee spreads, Ben Lomond.

Sublimity sits throned on thee,
Veiled in the vast profundity

That stills or wakes the inland sea

That bathes thy feet, Ben Lomond.

John Mitchell.

0,

Bennachie.

O, GIN I WERE WHERE GADIE RINS!

GIN I were where Gadie rins,

Where Gadie rius, where Gadie rins,

O, gin I were where Gadie rins

By the foot o' Bennachie!

I've roamed by Tweed, I 've roamed by Tay,
By border Nith, and highland Spey,

But dearer far to me than they

The braes o' Bennachie.

When blade and blossoms sprout in spring,

And bid the burdies wag the wing,

They blithely bob, and soar, and sing
By the foot o' Bennachie.

When simmer cleeds the varied scene
Wi' licht o' gow'd and leaves o' green,
I fain would be where aft I've been,
At the foot o' Bennachie.

When autumn's yellow sheaf is shorn,
And barnyards stored wi' stooks o' corn,
"T is blithe to toom the clyack horn
At the foot o' Bennachie.

When winter winds blaw sharp and shrill
O'er icy burn and sheeted hill,

The ingle neuk is gleesome still
At the foot o' Bennachie.

Though few to welcome me remain,
Though a' I loved be dead and gane,
I'll back, though I should live alane,
To the foot o' Bennachie.

O, gin I were where Gadie rins,
Where Gadie rins, where Gadie rins, —

O, gin I were where Gadie rins

By the foot o' Bennachie!

John Imlah.