Volume Iv Part 7 (1/2)

Still, far or near, by wild or wood, I'll love the generous, wise, and good; But she shall share the dearest mood That Heaven to life may render.

What boots it then thus on to stir, And still from love's enjoyment err, When I to Scotland and to her Must all this heart surrender.

Then would I were, &c.

OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR--_”Paddy's Resource.”_

Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear-- The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?

'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear, When chanting the songs of her own native vale.

More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale, Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore; More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale, When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.

Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky, Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?

'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart.

More charming is this than the glory of art, More lovely than rays from yon heavens above; It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart, Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.

Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?

'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!

More tender is this--more celestial and fair-- Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn; A balm that still softens the ranklings of care, And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.

OUR MARY.[7]

Our Mary liket weel to stray Where clear the burn was rowin', And trouth she was, though I say sae, As fair as ought ere made o' clay, And pure as ony gowan.

And happy, too, as ony lark The clud might ever carry; She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good, E'en mair than weel was understood; And a' fouk liket Mary.

But she fell sick wi' some decay, When she was but eleven; And as she pined frae day to day, We grudged to see her gaun away, Though she was gaun to Heaven.

There's fears for them that's far awa', And fykes for them are flitting, But fears and cares, baith grit and sma', We, by and by, o'er-pit them a'; But death there's nae o'er-pitting.

And nature's bands are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken; And e'en the form we loved to see, We canna lang, dear though it be, Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart-- Heaven did as gently free her; Yet lang afore she reach'd that part, Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start Had ye been there to see her.

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, And growing meek and meeker, Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair, She wore a little angel's air, Ere angels cam to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out by, The wee wild-flowers to gather; She oft her household plays wad try, To hide her illness frae our eye, Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did, Aye pleased the sweet wee creature; Indeed ye wad hae thought she had A something in her made her glad Ayont the course o' nature.

For though disease, beyont remeed, Was in her frame indented, Yet aye the mair as she grew ill, She grew and grew the lovelier still, And mair and mair contented.