THE

MAID OF PINMORE.

WHILE flocks on the mountains were nibbling the blue bells,
Extending their leaves to the fast falling dew,
And clear winding brooks slowly pass'd through the low dells
Where wild water lilies were waving in view;

At sunset to see, from the blue rillet springing,
The little fish seize on the fly passing o'er,

As cheerful I've roam'd, as the birds that were singing,
On Stinchar's green banks with the Maid of Pinmore.

Or when the crack'd pane in the roof of the cabin
Was flower'd by frosty-wing'd spirits unseen,
Or when at the wings of the poor little robin

The icicles hung, as he hopp'd on the green;

In rainbow-hued plaidy, and blue bonnet dress'd,

My heart light as clouds cross the blue welkin bore; Deep glens and wild hills intervening, I've pass'd,

To greet in her cottage the Maid of Pinmore.

Thus life's morning rose, ere regardless of danger,
The shrill sounding bugle I follow'd afar,

Ere I saw British blood stain the soil of the stranger,
Or trod on the dark desolation of war.

But if life warms my heart till the conflict is over,
Where Echo ne'er carried the cannon's loud roar,

I hope yet to meet with, still true to her lover,

On Stinchar's green banks, the sweet Maid of Pinmore.

THE

GRAMPIAN GLENS.

CHEERFULLY I Wont to wander

Whar the spreading birks are seen
Rising by the burn's meander
On the gently sloping green.

There, upo' yon brae sae grassy,
Connel, peer o' a' the clans,

Ca'd me aft the bonniest lassy
Biding in the Grampian Glens.

Though it was my minnie's banter, Striving aye to danton me,

That the wild wood trees in winter

Cou'dna barer be than he.

That I could be happy wi' him,

Ilka power aboon us kens;

For nae laddie I wad gie him

That e'er trod the Grampian Glens.

But the feather-busked bonnet,
An' the bagpipe melody,

To the war, Ah! wae be on it!
Wyl'd awa' my lad frae me;
Lonely now I range the heather,
Lonely stray the rushy fens ;

An' I fear again thegithir

We'll ne'er tread the Grampian Glens.

THE

SPIRITS OF THE WIND.

A BACCHANALIAN SONG.

HEAR the Spirits of the Wind,

How they round the chimney howl! But the hurricane ne'er mind,

Landlord, fill another bowl;
They are now perhaps as we,
Crown'd with mirth and jollity.

As they through the reel are tost,
On the lightning's fleeting glance,
Some old famed musician's ghost
Strikes up thunder to the dance.
In their ears it is a diddle,
Just like tuning of a fiddle.