Thou lookest thus, at eventide, while sets,
In opal and in amethystine hues,

The day o'er distant Arran, with its peaks
Sky-piercing, yet o'erclad with winter's snows
In desolate grandeur; and the cottaged fields
Of nearer Bute smile in their vernal green,
A picture of repose. High overhead

The gull, far-shrieking, through yon stern ravine
Of wild, rude rocks, where brawls the mountain stream,
Wings to the sea, and seeks, beyond its foams,

Its own precipitous cliff upon the coast

Of fair and fertile Cumbrae; while the rook,
Conscious of coming eventide, forsakes

The leafing woods, and round the chimneyed roofs
Caws as he wheels, alights, and then anon
Renews his circling flight in clamorous joy.

Mountains that face bald Arran! though the sun Now, with the ruddy lights of eventide, Gilds every pastoral summit on which Peace, Like a descended angel, sits enthroned, Forth gazing on a scene as beautiful As Nature e'er outspread for mortal eye; And but the voice of distant waterfall Sings lullaby to bird and beast, and wings Of insects murmurous, multitudinous, That in the low, red, level beams commix, And weave their elfin dance, - another time And other tones were yours, when on each peak At hand, and through Argyle and Lanark shires, Startling black midnight, flared the beacon lights,

And when from out the west the castled steep
Of Broadwick reddened with responsive blaze.
A night was that of doubt and of suspense,
Of danger and of daring, in the which
The fate of Scotland in the balance hung
Trembling, and up and down wavered the scales;
But Hope grew brighter with the rising sun,
And Dawn looked out, to see upon the shore
The Bruce's standard floating on the gale,
A call to freedom! - barks from every isle
Pouring with clumps of spears! — from every dell
The throng of mail-clad men! - vassal and lord,
With ponderous curtal-axe, and broadsword keen,
Banner and bow; while, overhead, afar

And near, the bugles rang amid the rocks,
Echoing in wild reverberation shrill,

And scaring from his heathery lair the deer,
The osprey from his island cliff of rest.

ET us haste to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O!

Where the rose in all her pride

Paints the hollow dingle-side,

Where the midnight fairies glide, bonnie lassie, O!

Let us wander by the mill, bonnie lassie, O!
To the cove beside the rill, bonnie lassie, O!
Where the glens rebound the call

Of the roaring water's fall,

Through the mountain's rocky hall, bonnie lassie, O!

O Kelvin banks are fair, bonnie lassie, O!
When in summer we are there, bonnie lassie, O!
There the May pink's crimson plume
Throws a soft but sweet perfume

Round the yellow banks of broom, bonnie lassie, O!

Though I dare not call thee mine, bonnie lassie, O! As the smile of fortune 's thine, bounie lassie, O! Yet with fortune on my side,

I could stay thy father's pride,

And win thee for my bride, bonnie lassie, O!

But the frowns of fortune lower, bonnie lassie, O!
On thy lover at this hour, bonnie lassie, O!
Ere yon golden orb of day

Wake the warblers on the spray,

From this land I must away, bonnie lassie, O!

Then farewell to Kelvin Grove, bonnie lassie, O! And adieu to all I love, bonnie lassie, O!

To the river winding clear,

To the fragrant-scented breer,

Even to thee of all most dear, bonnie lassie, O!

When upon a foreign shore, bonnie lassie, O! Should I fall midst battle's roar, bonnie lassie, O! Then, Helen! shouldst thou hear

Of thy lover on his bier,

To his memory shed a tear, bonnie lassie, O!

Thomas Lyle.

Kelvin Water.

TO KELVIN WATER.

(EQUESTERED stream! I saw year after year
The noxious town expanding, street on street,
Blighting the rural charms of thy retreat,
Where whispering lovers, no intruders near,
Walked hand in hand; where oft with stealthy feet
I hied along thy banks at morn, to hear

The small shrill wren the spring's reveille beat:
And as a bird, when robbed by driving sleet
Or cruel imps of half its fledglings dear,
Clings but the closer to the few still left,
So I to thee while one tree was uncleft;

But every vestige of the forest gone,

Like the same bird when reft of all her brood,

Who pours her mournful ditty through the wood, I sing thy dirge far off, and all alone.

James Cochrane.

Kenmore.

VERSES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEYPIECE IN THE

A

PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH.

DMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
The abodes of covied grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till famed Breadálbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides;

The woods, wild scattered, clothe their ample sides
The outstretching lake, imbosomed 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meandering sweet in infant pride;
The palace, rising on its verdant side;

The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks, dropt in Nature's careless haste;
The arches, striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village, glittering in the noontide beam

Poetic ardors in my bosom swell,

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;

The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods

;