An O gin love but leads the way, Then, while our youth is i' the prime, An' whan auld age upon our pow We'll welcome him wi' friendly low, * THE MAID OF ISLAY. RISING o'er the heaving billow, * Although these two highly beautiful songs, by a Mr. JAMES FRAZER of Edinburgh, were received at an early period of this work, by some unaccountable accident they have hitherto slipt aside. We would have been extremely sorry to have been deficient in our duty to the public and the author, in not giving them a place, as we judge them inferior to few pieces in this or any other collection. They contain the most flattering proofs of highly endowed poetical genius, which we would be happy to see assiduously cultivated, and encouraged. a 'Twas for her, the maid of Islay, Farewell days of purest pleasure, SWEET MAID, ON THY CHEEK. SWEET maid, on thy cheek there's a red rosy blush, From thine eye beams the peace of the dove, I own'd their keen pow'r 'neath yon sweet birken bush, When I sigh'd out the ag'nies of love. O enter this sweet sylvan shade, Where no cares shall intrude on our bliss, Where blushing, yet yielding, dear maid, Let me seal each fond vow with a kiss. A sweet nuptial morn soon shall smile on our loves, The birds in blyth concert shall sing in the grove, For sweetest, and dearest's the joy That the conjugal life can impart. LOVELY NAN. SWEET is the ship, that, under sail, When the boatswain pipes the barge to man. The needle, faithful to the north, Let seamanship do all it can: When in the bilboes I was penn'd, None hail'd me, woman, child, or man: I had all the world in lovely Nan. I love my duty, love my friend, To mourn their loss who hazard ran: To sail thro' life by honour's breeze: WILD HOWLS THE WIND. TUNE-" Banks of the Devon." WILD howls the wind o'er the loud dashing ocean, Fierce beat the dark billows on Coila's smooth shore; While friendless I wander amid the commotion, And muse on the spot I may never tread more. Ah no, my sad breast, never more must thou wander Those scenes, to thy mem'ry tho' ever so dear, Never more wi' thy lassie, by Clyde's smooth meander, No eye o'er thy fate shall drop pity's soft tear. More dread, and more ruthless the surge o' misfortune, Beat 'gainst this sad breast in my youth's early dawn; The keen blasts o' sorrow the tender stem tore soon, An' crush'd low in dust ere the floweret was blawn. This woe-laden bosom is now weakly beating, And trembling those limbs as I slow pace the shore; At each quiv'ring throb I feel life quick retreating, And Fate, hov'ring nigh, says the struggle is o'er. Hark, the wind stills, and lo where the high foaming billow, Late scatter'd his locks 'mong the robes o' the sky, Serene play the sun rays o' bright beaming yellow, And nature sweet smileth as order draws nigh. Ev'n so, thou lov'd maiden, when life's storms are over, A calm such as this we'll enjoy on yon shore, But more sweet, and a happier clime we'll discover, Where Fate, all relentless, can part us no more. Written by a young Gentleman while standing by the sea shore at Saltcoats. HALLOW FAIR. TUNE-" Fy let us a' to the bridal." THERE'S fouth o' braw Jockies and Jennies But Maggie was wond'rous jealous, There was Geordie that weel lo'ed his lassie, There was Wattie, the muirland laddie, But Bruckie play'd boo to Bawsie, The folk they came round him in clusters, |