Nor gilded beam, nor pictur'd dome, nor curtain, roofs it in,

But the blue sky rests, and white clouds float, above the bubbling linn,

Where God's own hand hath scoop'd it out in Nature's Titan hall,

And from her cloud-fed fountains drew its waters free to all.

Oh come and see my Highland bath, and prove its freshening flood,

And spare to taint your skin with swathes of drumly German mud: Come plunge with me into the wave like liquid topaz fair,

And to the waters give your back that spout down bravely there; Then float upon the swirling flood, and, like a glancing trout,

Plash about, and dash about, and make a lively rout,

And to the gracious sun display the glory of your skin,

As you dash about and splash about in the foamy-bubbling linn.

Oh come and prove my bonnie bath; in sooth 't is furnish'd well

With trees, and shrubs, and spreading ferns, all in the rocky dell,

And roses hanging from the cliff in grace of white and red,

And little tiny birches nodding lightly overhead,

And spiry larch with purple cones, and tips of virgin green,

copse with sunny

And leafy shade of hazel glints between : Oh might the Roman wight be here who praised Bandusia's well,

He'd find a bath to Nymphs more dear in my sweet Highland dell.

Some folks will pile proud palaces, and some will wander far

To scan the blinding of a sun, or the blinking of a star;

Some sweat through Afric's burning sands; and some will vex their soul

To find heaven knows what frosty prize beneath the Arctic pole.

God bless them all; and may they find what thing delights them well

Where fragrant ferns their fronds uncurl, and healthful breezes play,

And clear brown waters grandly swirl beneath the purple brae.

Oh come and prove my Highland bath, the burn, and all the glen,

Hard-toiling wights in dingy nooks, and scribes with inky pen,

Strange thoughtful men with curious quests that vex your fretful brains, And scheming sons of trade who fear to count your slippery gains; Come wander up the burn with me, and thread the winding glen,

And breathe the healthful power that flows down from the breezy Ben,

And plunge you in the deep brown pool; and from beneath the spray

You'll come forth like a flower that blooms 'neath freshening showers in May!

"No, no!" she said, "that may not be ;
What's mine is mine to bear;
Of good or ill, as God may will,
I take my portion'd share."

I am no gentleman, not I!
No star-bedizen'd thing!
My fathers filch'd no dignity,
By fawning to a king.
I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!
And to the wage of honesty
My rank I owe.

I am no gentleman, not I!
No bowing, scraping thing!

I bear my head more free and high
Than titled count or king.

I am no gentleman, not I!
No, no, no!

And thank the blessed God on high,
Who made me so!

WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?- for it 's now ten o'clock."

Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen,

The doug's spelder'd on the floor, and disna gie a cheep;

But here's a waukrife laddie, that winna fa' asleep.

Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue ! — glow'rin' like the moon,

Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin' like a cock,

Skirlin' like a kenna-what-wauknin' sleepin' folk!

Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel!

Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel,

Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums :

Hey, Willie Winkie!—See, there he comes!

TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS

TELL me, ye winged winds,
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,

The weary soul may rest?

The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sigh'd for pity as it answer'd, "No."

Tell me, thou mighty deep,

Whose billows round me play,
Knowst thou some favor'd spot,
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find
The bliss for which he sighs,
Where sorrow never lives,

And friendship never dies?
The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
Stopp'd for a while, and sigh'd to answer,
"No."

And thou, serenest moon,

That, with such lovely face,
Dost look upon the earth

Asleep in night's embrace;
Tell me, in all thy round

Hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man

May find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, And a voice, sweet but sad, responded, "No."

Tell me, my secret soul,

Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith, Is there no resting-place

From sorrow, sin, and death?

THROUGH great Earl Norman's acres wide,
A prosperous and a good land,
'T will take you fifty miles to ride
O'er grass, and corn, and woodland.
His age is sixty-nine, or near,

And I'm scarce twenty-two, man,
And have but fifty pounds a year,

Poor John Truman !

But would I change? I' faith ! not I,
Oh no! not I, says Truman!

Earl Norman dwells in halls of state,

The grandest in the county;

Has forty cousins at his gate,

To feed upon his bounty.

But then he's deaf- the doctors' care,
While I in whispers woo, man,
And find my physic in the air,

Stout John Truman!

D'ye think I'd change for thrice his gold?
Oh no! not I, says Truman !

Earl Norman boasts a gartered knee,
A proof of royal graces ;

I wear, by Nelly wrought for me,
A silken pair of braces.
He sports a star upon his breast,
And I a violet blue, man,

Oh! jewel, keep draming that same till you die,

And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie!

And 't is plaz'd that I am, and why not, to be sure ?

Since 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More.

"Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teas'd me enough,

Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff;

And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste,

So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste."

Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,

So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,

And he look'd in her eyes that were beaming with light,

And he kiss'd her sweet lips; think he was right?

don't you

"Now Rory, leave off, sir; you'll hug me

When everything smiles, should a beauty look glum?

Och hone! Widow Machree.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares
Why even the bears

Now in couples agree;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,
Och hone! Widow Machree.

Widow Machree, and when winter comes in,

Och hone! Widow Machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone! Widow Machree.
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee;
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit, you sup,

Och hone! Widow Machree.

And how do you know, with the comforts I've towld,

Och hone! Widow Machree, But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld?

Och hone! Widow Machree.
With such sins on your head
Sure your peace would be fled,
Could you sleep in your bed

Without thinking to see

Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,

Crying, "Och hone! Widow Ma-
chree"?

Then take my advice, darling Widow Machree,

Och hone! Widow Machree. And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take me,

Och hone! Widow Machree.
You'd have me to desire

Then to sit by the fire,
And sure Hope is no liar

In whispering to me,

That the ghosts would depart,
When you'd me near your heart,

Och hone! Widow Machree.