lers were subjected to hardships of which they were not aware. Winter overtook them whilst in the Gennesee country, on their return by the way of Albany; and they were compelled to trudge the greater part of their route through snow mid-leg deep. Of the two colleagues that accompanied Wilson, one tarried amongst his friends on the Cayuga lake, and the other gave out, and took the benefit of a more agreeable mode of travelling. But the har. dy Wilson's pride would not permit him to be overcome by fatigue or difficulties. He manfully kept the road, refusing to be relieved even of his gun and baggage; and arrived at his home the 7th of Dec. having been absent 59 days, and traversed in that time upwards of 1200 miles. The last day he walked 47 miles. He remained four or five years as a teacher in the state of Pennsylvania, and was afterwards employed for about the same length of time as a land surveyor. He then became connected with Mr. Samuel Bradford, bookseller and stationer, of Philadelphia, in the capacity of editor. He soon distinguished himself as a man of genius and observation ; and among other things which gained him the approbation of the inhabitants of that country, was an elegant work on American Ornithology, which, for accuracy of observation, and splendour of execution, has never been equalled by any publication in that quarter of the world. In pursuit of subjects for this performance he actually traversed a great part of the United States, and was enabled to pursue his favourite diversion of shooting. He killed the birds, drew their figures, and described them. There are few more particulars known of the life of Mr. Wilson; and we learn that he has since paid the debt of nature.”

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The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,

And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray, in the calm summer gloaining,

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane,

How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,

And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

She's modest as onie, and blythe as she's bonnie;

For guileless Simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom, the sweet flow'r o'Dumblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,

Thou’rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,

Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,

The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,

Till charm’d wi sweet Jessie, the flow'r o'Dumblane. Though mine were the station o’ loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o’its splendour,

If wanting sweet Jessie, the fow'r o' Dumblane.

Hie bonnie lassie blink over the burn,
And if your flocks wander I'll gie them a turn;
Sae happy as we'll be on yonder green shade,
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid.
A ewe and twa lammies is a' my hale stock,
But I'll sell a lammie out o' my wee flock,
To buy thee a head-lace sae bonnie and braid,
If ye'll be my dawtie, and sit in my plaid.
I hae a wee whittle made me a trout creel,
And O that wee whittle I liked it weel;

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Sine on her mouth sweet kisses laid,
Till blushes a' her cheeks o'er-spread;
She sigh'd, and in saft whispers said,

O Pate tak me to Gowrie.
Quo' he, let's to the auld fouk gang,
Say what they like, I'll bide their bang
And bide a night, tho' beds be thrang,

But I'll hae thee to Gowrie.

The auld fouk syne baith gied consent,
The priest was ca'd, a' were content;
And Katie never did repent,

That she gaed hame to Gowrie.
For routh o' bonnie bairns had she,
Mair strappin' lads ye wadna see;
And her braw lasses bare the gree,

Frae a' the rest o' Gowrie.


: TUNE—Banks of the Devon.” O’ER the mist-shrouded clifts of the low mountain stray.

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Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave; What woes wring my heart, while intently surveying

The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. Ye foam-crested billows allow me to wail,

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; Where the flow'r which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's

green vale, The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more!

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander,

And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her,

For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast,

I haste with the storm to a far distant shore, Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest,

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. *


* The Editor of this Work wishes not to be understood as accusing his readers of inattention to their immortal Burns, when he introduces to their notice, as new to them, a fragment of his writings. It has never been published, so far as he knows, in any edition of his works, appearing sometime after its composi tion in the Ayr Advertiser. It was probably the Mary he has elsewhere so pathetically sung of, that excited this beautiful effusion, in which Scotia easily recognizes the genius of the first of her minstrels.

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