Song of a Tourist.

WHILE wandering o'er the distant hills, To absence I've resigned me:

One thought with grief my bosom fills,— The dog I left behind me!

I miss the doggie at my feet,
As in my plaid I wind me,
Resting among the bracken sweet;—
The dog I left behind me!

I know he strays with weary moan,
Seeking in vain to find me,
Then sadly lays him down alone ;—
Poor dog I left behind me!

New friends I make, in glen or bay,
Yet justice must remind me,
More loving, and more true than they,
The dog I left behind me.

And when, returned from salt-sea foam, Where ties of duty bind me,

Who gives the warmest welcome home? The dog I left behind me!

Tales of my Grandmother.

No. I.

FAIR Margaret was a pawky maid
With black and glancing een :
Now hearken to the sport she had
On the night o' Hallowe'en.

'Twas in a pleasant country-house,

The guests assembled all,

The merry dance and song went round,
Till moonbeams lit the hall.

The clock struck twelve, the guests retired,

Each to his curtained bed;

But visions of the night were far

From playful Margaret's head.

Within her room a closet lay,
Which held in its recess

A uniform of colours gay,

An officer's full dress.

And, quick as thought, fair Margaret
The garb of war assumed,

And through the silent corridors

Her stealthy way resumed.

She sought a chamber where there lay,

In slumber's peaceful fold,

Two ancient maiden ladies gray,
Who yellow were, and old.

To shield them from the bitter blast
Of chill November's night,

Their heads in flannel petticoats

Were wrapped up warm'and tight.

Uproused from sleep, they screamed with fright,

For lo! beside their bed

There stood a warrior, sword in hand,

With plumed cocked hat on head.

They yelled and yelled,—the house was roused,

The warrior trembling leapt Between their petticoated heads, For shelter down he crept.

And then the room began to fill
With guests in night array,

And some did scold, and some did swear,
And some began to pray.

Between the flannel petticoats

The plumed cocked hat appears,

And 'neath the blankets Margaret's face,
Bedewed with contrite tears.

They pulled her from beneath the clothes,

Abashed, she slunk away;

But the old maiden ladies grim

Never forgave that day.