EXTEMPORE VERSES,

IN IMITATION OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD,

A bonnie wee cloud flew up the lift,

Wi' a lightsome glancin' motion,

As pure and as white as the snaw in the drift,
Or the spray on the moon-lit ocean :
'Twas peopled wi' spirits frae earth set free,
And happy as sinless spirits can be!

Their robes were a' o' the dazzling sheen,
As they sped on their joyful mission;
Such robes were never before, I ween,

Display'd to mortal vision:

They were wove by the Fairy Queen in her bower,
Frae the snow-drop's leaves in a sunny shower!

Between the moon and the mountain ridge,

They rowed on their blissful path,

Till they rose to the realms abune the stars,
Unknown to sorrow and death;

And stretching away frae my straining sight,
Burst forth a troop of angels bright!

I arose frae the side of the mountain wan,

In its autumn mantle clad,

And a wish through my moody musings ran

That my grass green grave were spread,
That I might share, abune the skies,

These spirits' lot in Paradise!

THE PARTING EMBRACE.

TO AURA.

"Tis winter on these naked hills,
But, oh! 'tis summer in my heart;
Through every fibre throbs and thrills,
Thy dear embrace when we did part.

I wander through the wint'ry mist,

I trace by night the trackless snow— Still thy warm cheek to mine is prest,

Still those dear arms around me grow!

The impetuous torrent foams and boils,
The blast howls through the midnight sky,

My shuddering steed in fear recoils,

As red the lightning flashes by.

But vain the terrors of the storm,

My soul to pierce, my heart to chill; Around me glides thy radiant form,

Thy last embrace enfolds me still!

Not for the wealth of every sphere
The sun encircles in his race;
Would I forego that image dear,
Would I forget that fond embrace.

THE OLD FISHER'S SONG.

The merry morn is waking to the throstle's roundelay,
Upon the bosom of the loch the fresh'ning breezes play;
A night of showers has steep'd the flowers in the jolly angler's
path,

As cheerily he wends his way by greenwood, hill, and strath.

Hurrah! the streams are up, and from their mountain holds

so green

Come rapid down, in foamy falls, with black'ning pools between; The breeze sweeps thro' the alder's bough, and curls the wave

beneath,

Where the sullen trout leaps fiercely out and plunges on his death.

The brown drake wing,* my foremost fly, the heckle deadly black,

The hare's ear gray to sweep the pool, the blae wing on his

back;

* Commonly called a "Professor Wilson," either from its deadliness, (the Professor being a most enthusiastic and skilful fisher) or because he invented, or is partial to it.

Then, oh! for Coquet's moorland stream in the merry month

of May,

And the deadliest hand with any man between the Tyne and Tay!

Let others toil for fame or power, and crouch to rank and wealth,

Give me the angler's gentle sport, the angler's ruddy health; To meet the sun upon the loch, with a bosom light and free, And sink to rest when the glowing west drops down the distant sea!

SONG,

"HOW WEAK ARE WORDS.”

How weak are words to speak the soul
That burns with Love's enraptur'd feeling!

The transports wild that on me roll

Entrance my heart, yet mock revealing.

Oh! I have sought each term of love,

And words of fond endearment utter'd;

Invoked the rosy powers above,

And passion's warmest whisperings mutter'd.

But vain, oh! vain, such art as this,
My love, sweet Aura! to discover;
A seraph scarce could speak the bliss
That thrills the bosom of thy lover!

The tones alone such love impart

Are burning sighs by kisses broken;

Then let me clasp thee to my heart,

And feel the bliss can ne'er be spoken!