What tho' from fortune's lavish'd bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find within our pittance, plenty,

And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season,
Sufficient for our wishes give;

For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only way to live.

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread,
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

And when with envy, time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

poetic fiction only, or rather a stroke of satire, by which Dr. Percy was strangely induced to insert the piece among his "Reliques of Ancient Poe try." In the Edinburgh Review, Vol. ix. p. 37, the honour of this produc tion is given to the late Mr. Stephens, (meaning George Stevens, Esq;) but with what propriety may be doubted. Riston, in his "Collection of English Songs," ascribes it to Mr. Gilbert Cooper.

CVIII.

'TWAS IN A LONELY COTTAGE DWELLING.

'Twas in a lonely cottage dwelling,
Oft remember'd with a tear,

With falt'ring voice his sighs repelling,
Edward own'd his love sincere.

But I was vain and blush'd with beauty,
He was poor and humbly born,
I coldly pleaded filial duty,

Treating all his vows with scorn.

With trembling steps and broken-hearted,
Edward left his native plain;
From that sad day all joy departed,
Never to return again.

For he, o'erwhelm'd with hopeless sorrow,

Frantic to the battle sped;

The foe repuls'd--but on the morrow,

Edward slumber'd with the dead.

CIX.

THE ROSE THAT BLOOMS.

AIR-I saw thy form.

The rose that blooms on yonder brier,
Beneath the hawthorn shade,
Looks full of life, and gay as thee,
But, ah! it soon will fade, Mary.

Nurs'd by the summer dews of heaven, It buds, and soon is blown,

But long ere winter's frown is seen, 'Tis gone for ever gone, Mary!

Perhaps 'tis cropp'd by school-boy hand, In search of Linnet nest;

Perhaps some lover, wandering by,

May place it in his breast, Mary.

And what is beauty but a rose,
That blooms a short-liv'd hour;
When not untimely cropp'd by death,

Or blighted like the flower, Mary,

CX.

NO, MARY, WE CAN MEET NAE MAIR ".

No, Mary, we can meet nae mair,

Thou'st fause been to thysel' and me,

Thou'st left me for anither's sake,

The thing I cou'dna done to thee.

The bosom aft that pillow'd thee,

That bosom how cou'dst thou forsake!

The heart that was sae set on thee,

Sae fond a heart, how cou'dst thou break?

In a note which accompanied this song, this author informs us that it was written on occasion of his reading the celebrated speech of counsellor Phillips, entitled "Guthrie v. Sterne." This is a case with which, no doubt, the most of our readers will be already well acquainted. It became extensively known at the time when it occurred, not only from the peculiar atrocities which the crime itself involved, but chiefly on account of the very spirited address delivered by Mr. Phillips in behalf of the injured husband.

As it would however encroach too much upon our present limits to give even a brief of this interesting case, we shall simply observe, that it became highly aggravated on the part of the lady, and particularly distressing to the afflicted husband, from the consideration that her levity had forced her not only from a home, where happiness seemed to dwell, but from the superinten. dence and affection of four helpless children. This thought so affected the tender father, that he put them into mourning, thereby most significantly referring to their forlorn and orphan situation, and it is to this circumstance that the poet so feelingly alludes, in the second stanza, where he introduces "the wee things as eying their mournfu' garb.”

P

All pleasure now wi' thee has fled,
And hame is dreary, fu' o' wae;
Each former joy adds grief to think
That her I lov'd has us'd me sae.

The wee things eye their mournfu' garb,
Their mother aye they wish to see,
Their father's looks and tears they mark,
And wonder what the cause can be.

The anguish which my bosom wrings,
O may'st thou, Mary, never feel!
For a' the ill thou'st done to me,

I'll aye sincerely wish thee weel.

A deadly stroke to me thou'st gi'en,

Life ebbing issues frae the woun',
Yet hate me not, for soon will I
Baith wi' the world and thee hae done.

CXI.

TO THEE LOV'D DEE.

To thee, lov'd Dee, thy gladsome vales,
Where late with careless steps I rang'd,
Tho' prest with care, and sunk in woe,

To thee I bring a heart unchang'd.