O tell me not of olive groves, Where gold and gems abound; Of deep blue eyes and maiden loves, With every virtue crown'd.

I ask no other ray of joy Life's desert to adorn, Than that sweet bliss, which ne'er can cloy-- The love of Menie Lorn.

THE YOUNG SOLDIER.

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

O say not o' war the young soldier is weary, Ye wha in battle ha'e witness'd his flame; Remember his daring when danger was near ye, Forgive ye the sigh that he heaves for his hame.

Past perils he heeds not, nor dangers yet coming, Frae dark-brooding terror his young heart is free; But it pants for the place whar in youth he was roaming; He turns to the north wi' the tear in his e'e.

'Tis remembrance that saftens what war never daunted, 'Tis the hame o' his birth that gives birth to the tear; The warm fondled hopes his first love had implanted, He langs now to reap in his Jeanie sae dear.

An' aften he thinks on the bonnie clear burnie, Whar oft in love's fondness they daff'd their young day; Nae tear then was shedded, for short was the journey 'Tween Jeanie's broom bower and the blaeberry brae.

An' weel does he mind o' that morning, when dressing, In green Highland garb, to cross the wide sea; His auld mither grat when she gi'ed him her blessing-- 'Twas a' that the puir body then had to gi'e.

The black downy plume on his bonnie cheek babbit, As he stood at the door an' shook hands wi' them a'; But sair was his heart, an' sair Jeanie sabbit, Whan down the burn-side she convoy'd him awa'.

Now high-headed Alps an' dark seas divide them, Wilds ne'er imagined in love's early dream; Their Alps then the knowes, whare the lambs lay beside them, Their seas then the hazel an' saugh-shaded stream.

An' wha couldna sigh when memory 's revealing The scenes that surrounded our life's early hame?

The hero whose heart is cauld to that feeling His nature is harsh, and not worthy the name.

THE LAND I LOVE.

The land I lo'e, the land I lo'e, Is the land of the plaid and bonnet blue, Of the gallant heart, the firm and true, The land of the hardy thistle.

Isle of the freeborn, honour'd and blest, Isle of beauty, in innocence dress'd, The loveliest star on ocean's breast Is the land of the hardy thistle.

Fair are those isles of Indian bloom, Whose flowers perpetual breathe perfume; But dearer far are the braes o' broom Where blooms the hardy thistle.

No luscious fig-tree blossoms there, No slaves the scented shrubb'ry rear; Her sons are free as the mountain air That shakes the hardy thistle.

Lovely 's the tint o' an eastern sky, And lovely the lands that 'neath it lie; But I wish to live, and I wish to die In the land of the hardy thistle!

ROBERT L. MALONE.

Robert L. Malone was a native of Anstruther, in Fife, where he was born in 1812. His father was a captain in the navy, and afterwards was employed in the Coast Guard. He ultimately settled at Rothesay, in Bute.

Receiving a common school education, Robert entered the navy in his fourteenth year. He served on board the gun-brig _Marshall_, which attended the Fisheries department in the west; next in the Mediterranean ocean; and latterly in South America. Compelled, from impaired health, to renounce the seafaring life, after a service of ten years, he returned to his family at Rothesay, but afterwards settled in the town of Greenock. In 1845, he became a clerk in the Long-room of the Customs at Greenock, an appointment which he retained till nigh the period of his death. A lover of poetry from his youth, he solaced the hours of sickness by the composition of verses. He published, in 1845, a duodecimo volume of poetry, ent.i.tled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet.

His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince considerable power.

THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Humours o' Glen."_

Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers, And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea, The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers, Is the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning, And breathing perfume over moorland and lea, But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning Like the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken, Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free, And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken; The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for thee!

Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers, And cold as the grave my affections must be, Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers; The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers, Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e, Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers; The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

HAME IS AYE HAMELY.

AIR--_"Love's Young Dream."_

Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be, An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea; Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame, There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand, Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land?

I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name, And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.

'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream, And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream; His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim, But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved mountain hame.

No! The peasant's heart within the peer beat true to nature still, For on his vision oft would rise the cottage on the hill; And young companions, long forgot, would join him in the game, As erst in life's young morning, around his Hieland hame.

Oh! in the Brahmin, mild and gray, his father's face he saw; He thought upon his mother's tears the day he gaed awa'; And her he loved--his Hieland girl--there 's magic in the name-- They a' combine to wile him back to his far Hieland hame.

He sigh'd for kindred hearts again, and left the sunny lands, And where his father's cottage stood a stately palace stands; And with his grandchild on his knee--the old man's heart on flame-- 'Tis thus he trains his darling boy to cherish thoughts of hame.

Oh! hame is aye hamely, dear, though poor at times it be, Ye winna find a spot like hame in lands beyond the sea; Oh! ye may wander east or west, in quest o' wealth or fame, But there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame, Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

PETER STILL.

Peter Still was born in the parish of Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, on the 1st day of January 1814. At the time of his birth his father rented a farm, but, being unfortunate, he was compelled to seek the support of his family by manual labour. With a limited education at the parish-school of Longside, whither his parents had removed, the subject of this memoir was sent, in his eleventh year, to tend cattle. When somewhat older, he found employment as a farm-servant; but having married in his twentieth year, he afterwards followed the more precarious occupation of a day-labourer. Of a delicate const.i.tution, he suffered much from impaired health, being frequently, for months together, confined to the sick-chamber. During the periods of convalescence from illness, he composed verses, which he gave to the world in three separate publications. His last work--"The Cottar's Sunday, and other Poems"--appeared in 1845, in a handsome duodecimo volume. He closed a life of much privation and suffering at Peterhead, on the 21st March 1848.