In childhood's days, sweet dawn o' life,
Unknown to sorrow, care, and strife,
Aft ha'e I roved mid pleasures rife,
Upon thy banks, sweet Glaizart.
There too, fair Jeanie, maid o' glee,
In youthfu' days engaged my e'e,
And first her mou' I blythe did prie,
Upon thy banks, sweet Glaizart.

O, charming are the towering Fells,
Whare rural pleasure kindly dwells;
And lovely are the blooming bells

That grace thy banks, sweet Glaizart.
Here Nature's han', in days o' yore,
That after-swains might her adore,
Bequeathed the peerless gifts, in store,

That grace thy banks, sweet Glaizart.

Yes, wi' that bonnie Clachan Glen,
Whare birdies chant the artless strain,
Her warks she crowned, and marked her ain

The bonnie banks o' Glaizart.

Eclipsing a' her favors high,

She blythe proclaimed wi' smiling eye,

Now, never now, shall scene outvie

The bonnie banks o' Glaizart."

Anonymous.

Glammis Castle.

WITHIN THE TOWERS OF ANCIENT GLAMMIS.

THIS lively lyrical rhapsody, written in April, 1821, celebrates an amusing incident connected with the visit of Sir Walter Scott to the Castle of Glammis, in 1793.

ITHIN the towers of ancient Glammis

WITHIN

Some merry men did dine,

And their host took care they should richly fare

In friendship, wit, and wine.

But they sat too late, and mistook the gate

(For wine mounts to the brain);

O, 't was merry in the hall when the beards wagged all;

O, we hope they 'll be back again;

We hope they'll be back again!

Sir Walter tapped at the parson's door,

To find the proper way,

But he dropt his switch, though there was no ditch,

And on the steps it lay,

So his wife took care of this nice affair,

And she wiped it free from stain;

For the knight was gone, nor the owner known,

So he ne'er got the switch again;
So he ne'er got the switch again.

This wondrous little whip remains
Within the lady's sight

(She crambo makes, with some mistakes,

But hopes for further light).

So she ne'er will part with this switch so smart,
These thirty years her ain;

Till the knight appear, it must just lie here,
He will ne'er get his switch again;
He will ne'er get his switch again!

Sing, trailing showers and breezy downs, -
I know the tragic hearts of towns.

City! I am true son of thine;

Ne'er dwelt I where great mornings shine

Around the bleating pens;

Ne'er by the rivulets I strayed,
And ne'er upon my childhood weighed
The silence of the glens.

Instead of shores where ocean beats,

I hear the ebb and flow of streets.

Black Labor draws his weary waves
Into their secret-moaning caves;
But with the morning light

That sea again will overflow
With a long, weary sound of woe,
Again to faint in night.

Wave am I in that sea of woes,
Which, night and morning, ebbs and flows.

I dwelt within a gloomy court,
Wherein did never sunbeam sport;
Yet there my heart was stirred, -
My very blood did dance and thrill,
When on my narrow window-sill

Spring lighted like a bird.

Poor flowers! I watched them pine for weeks, With leaves as pale as human cheeks.

Afar, one summer, I was borne ;
Through golden vapors of the morn
I heard the hills of sheep:

I trod with a wild ecstasy
The bright fringe of the living sea:
And on a ruined keep

I sat and watched an endless plain
Blacken beneath the gloom of rain.

O, fair the lightly sprinkled waste,
O'er which a laughing shower has raced!
O, fair the April shoots!

O, fair the woods on summer days,

While a blue hyacinthine haze
Is dreaming round the roots!

In thee, O city! I discern
Another beauty, sad and stern.

Draw thy fierce streams of blinding ore,
Smite on a thousand anvils, roar

Down to the harbor-bars;
Smoulder in smoky sunsets, flare
On rainy nights, while street and square
Lie empty to the stars.

From terrace proud to alley base,
I know thee as my mother's face.

When sunset bathes thee in his gold,
In wreaths of bronze thy sides are rolled,
Thy smoke is dusty fire;

And from the glory round thee poured,
A sunbeam like an angel's sword

Shivers upon a spire.

Thus have I watched thee, Terror! Dream! While the blue Night crept up the stream.

The wild train plunges in the hills,
He shrieks across the midnight rills;

Streams through the shifting glare,
The roar and flap of foundry fires,
That shake with light the sleeping shires;
And on the moorlands bare

He sees afar a crown of light

Hang o'er thee in the hollow night.