Still, far or near, by wild or wood, I'll love the generous, wise, and good; But she shall share the dearest mood That Heaven to life may render.

What boots it then thus on to stir, And still from love's enjoyment err, When I to Scotland and to her Must all this heart surrender.

Then would I were, &c.

OH! TELL ME WHAT SOUND.

AIR--_"Paddy's Resource."_

Oh! tell me what sound is the sweetest to hear-- The sound that can most o'er our being prevail?

'Tis the sweet melting voice of the maid we love dear, When chanting the songs of her own native vale.

More thrilling is this than the tone of the gale, Awakening the wind-harp's wild wandering lore; More sweet than the songster that sings in the dale, When the strains of the rest of the warblers are o'er.

Oh! tell me what light, of the earth or the sky, Can the deepest delight to the spirit impart?

'Tis the bright beaming radiance that lives in the eye Of the maid that affection has bound to the heart.

More charming is this than the glory of art, More lovely than rays from yon heavens above; It heightens each joy, as it soothes every smart, Enchanting our souls with the magic of love.

Oh! tell me what drop is most melting and meek That aught 'neath the azure of heaven can share?

'Tis the tear-drop that falls o'er the dear maiden's cheek When she breathes o'er her lover her sigh and her prayer!

More tender is this--more celestial and fair-- Than the dew-drop that springs from the chamber of morn; A balm that still softens the ranklings of care, And heals every wound that the bosom hath borne.

OUR MARY.[7]

Our Mary liket weel to stray Where clear the burn was rowin', And trouth she was, though I say sae, As fair as ought ere made o' clay, And pure as ony gowan.

And happy, too, as ony lark The clud might ever carry; She shunn'd the ill, and sought the good, E'en mair than weel was understood; And a' fouk liket Mary.

But she fell sick wi' some decay, When she was but eleven; And as she pined frae day to day, We grudged to see her gaun away, Though she was gaun to Heaven.

There's fears for them that's far awa', And fykes for them are flitting, But fears and cares, baith grit and sma', We, by and by, o'er-pit them a'; But death there's nae o'er-pitting.

And nature's bands are hard to break, When thus they maun be broken; And e'en the form we loved to see, We canna lang, dear though it be, Preserve it as a token.

But Mary had a gentle heart-- Heaven did as gently free her; Yet lang afore she reach'd that part, Dear sir, it wad hae made ye start Had ye been there to see her.

Sae changed, and yet sae sweet and fair, And growing meek and meeker, Wi' her lang locks o' yellow hair, She wore a little angel's air, Ere angels cam to seek her.

And when she couldna stray out by, The wee wild-flowers to gather; She oft her household plays wad try, To hide her illness frae our eye, Lest she should grieve us farther.

But ilka thing we said or did, Aye pleased the sweet wee creature; Indeed ye wad hae thought she had A something in her made her glad Ayont the course o' nature.

For though disease, beyont remeed, Was in her frame indented, Yet aye the mair as she grew ill, She grew and grew the lovelier still, And mair and mair contented.

But death's cauld hour cam' on at last, As it to a' is comin'; And may it be, whene'er it fa's, Nae waur to others than it was To Mary, sweet wee woman!

FOOTNOTES:

[7] This exquisite lay forms a portion of "The Cottagers of Glendale,"

Mr Riddell's longest ballad poem.

MRS MARGARET M. INGLIS.

The writer of spirited and elegant poetry, Mrs Margaret Maxwell Inglis was the youngest daughter of Alexander Murray, a medical pract.i.tioner, who latterly accepted a small government situation in the town of Sanquhar, Dumfriesshire. She was born at Sanquhar on the 27th October 1774, and at an early age became the wife of a Mr Finlay, who held a subordinate post in the navy. On the death of her husband, which took place in the West Indies, she resided with the other members of her family in Dumfries; and in 1803, she married Mr John Inglis, only son of John Inglis, D.D., minister of Kirkmabreck, in Galloway. By the death of Mr Inglis in 1826, she became dependent, with three children by her second marriage, on a small annuity arising from an appointment which her late husband had held in the Excise. She relieved the sadness of her widowhood by a course of extensive reading, and of composition both in prose and verse. In 1838 she published, at the solicitation of friends, a duodecimo volume, ent.i.tled "Miscellaneous Collection of Poems, chiefly Scriptural Pieces." Of the compositions in this volume, there are several of very superior merit, while the whole are marked by a vein of elegant fancy.

Mrs Inglis died in Edinburgh on the 21st December 1843. Eminently gifted as a musician, she could boast of having been complimented by the poet Burns on the grace with which she had, in his presence, sung his own songs. Of retiring and un.o.btrusive habits, she mixed sparingly in general society; but among her intimate friends, she was held in estimation for the extent of her information and the unclouded cheerfulness of her disposition. She has left some MSS. of poems and songs, from which we have been privileged to make selections for the present work.

SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.[8]

AIR--_"Banks of the Devon."_

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!

Where art thou wandering?

Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.

Why round yon craggy rocks Wander thy heedless flocks, While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?

Cold as the mountain stream, Pale as the moonlight beam, Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.

Wild may the tempest's wave Sweep o'er thy lonely grave; Thou art deaf to the storm--it is harmless to thee.

Like a meteor's brief light, Like the breath of the morning, Thy life's dream hath pa.s.s'd as a shadow gone by; Till thy soft numbers stealing O'er mem'ry's warm feeling, Each line is embalm'd with a tear or a sigh.

Sweet was thy melody, Rich as the rose's dye, Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee; Love laugh'd on golden wing, Pleasure's hand touch'd the string, All taught the strain to sing, Shepherd, by thee.

Cold on Benlomond's brow Flickers the drifted snow, While down its sides the wild cataracts foam; Winter's mad winds may sweep Fierce o'er each glen and steep, Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.

And when on dewy wing Comes the sweet bird of spring, Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree; The Bird of the Wilderness, Low in the waving gra.s.s, Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song was composed by Mrs Inglis, in honour of the Ettrick Shepherd, shortly after the period of his death.

YOUNG JAMIE.[9]

AIR--_"Drummond Castle."_