THE MONTH OF JUNE.

O June, ye spring the loveliest flowers That a' our seasons yield; Ye deck sae flush the greenwood bowers, The garden, and the field; The pathway verge by hedge and tree, So fresh, so green, and gay, Where every lovely blue flower's e'e Is opening to the day.

The river banks and craggy peaks In wilding blossoms drest; With ivy o'er their jutting nooks Ye screen the ouzel's nest; From precipice, abrupt and bold, Your tendrils flaunt in air, With craw-flowers dangling living gold Ye tuft the steep brown scaur.

Your foliage shades the wild bird's nest From every prying e'e, With fairy fingers ye invest In woven flowers the lea; Around the lover's blissful hour Ye draw your leafy screen, And shade those in your rosy bower, Who love to muse unseen.

JOHN BURTT.

John Burtt was born about the year 1790, at Knockmarloch, in the parish of Riccarton, and county of Ayr. With a limited school education, he was apprenticed to a weaver in Kilmarnock; but at the loom he much improved himself in general scholarship, especially in cla.s.sical learning. In his sixteenth year he was decoyed into a ship of war at Greenock, and compelled to serve on board. Effecting his escape, after an arduous servitude of five years, he resumed the loom at Kilmarnock. He subsequently taught an adventure school, first in Kilmarnock, and afterwards at Paisley. The irksome labours of sea-faring life he had sought to relieve by the composition of verses; and these in 1816 he published, under the t.i.tle of "Horae Poeticae; or, the Recreations of a Leisure Hour." In 1817 he emigrated to the United States, where his career has been prosperous. Having studied theology at Princeton College, New Jersey, he became a licentiate of the Presbyterian Church, and was appointed to a ministerial charge at Salem. In 1831 he removed to Philadelphia, where he edited a periodical ent.i.tled the _Presbyterian_. Admitted in 1833 to a Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati, he there edited the _Standard_, a religious newspaper. In August 1835, he was promoted to a chair in the Theological Seminary of that place.

O'ER THE MIST-SHROUDED CLIFFS.[8]

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

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the gray mountain straying, Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave; What woes wring my heart while intently surveying The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave?

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my loved native sh.o.r.e; Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, The pride of my bosom--my Mary 's no more.

No more by the banks of the streamlet we 'll wander, And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave.

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast-- I haste with the storm to a far distant sh.o.r.e, Where, unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, And joy shall revisit my bosom no more.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] This song has been erroneously a.s.signed to Burns.

O! La.s.sIE, I LO'E DEAREST!

O! la.s.sie, I lo'e dearest!

Mair fair to me than fairest, Mair rare to me than rarest, How sweet to think o' thee.

When blythe the blue e'ed dawnin'

Steals saftly o'er the lawnin', And furls night's sable awnin', I love to think o' thee.

An' while the honey'd dew-drap Still trembles at the flower-tap, The fairest bud I pu't up, An' kiss'd for sake o' thee.

An' when by stream or fountain, In glen, or on the mountain, The lingering moments counting, I pause an' think o' thee.

When the sun's red rays are streamin', Warm on the meadow beamin', Or o'er the loch wild gleamin', My heart is fu' o' thee.

An' tardy-footed gloamin', Out o'er the hills slow comin', Still finds me lanely roamin', And thinkin' still o' thee.

When soughs the distant billow, An' night blasts shake the willow, Stretch'd on my lanely pillow, My dreams are a' o' thee.

Then think when frien's caress thee, Oh, think when cares distress thee, Oh, think when pleasures bless thee, O' him that thinks o' thee.

CHARLES JAMES FINLAYSON.

Charles James Finlayson was born on the 27th August 1790, in the parish of Larbert, and county of Stirling. Owing to the death of his father during his childhood, and the poverty of the family, he was never at school. While a cow-herd to a farmer, he taught himself letters in the fields. With a fine ear for music and an excellent voice, he took delight in singing such sc.r.a.ps of old ballads as he had learned from the cottage matrons. The small gratuities which he procured for holding the horses of the farmers at the annual Falkirk _trysts_, put him in possession of all the printed ballad literature which that town could supply. In his eleventh year he entered, in a humble capacity, the Carron Iron Works; where he had some opportunity of improving himself in scholarship, and gratifying his taste for books. He travelled from Carron to Glasgow, a distance of twenty-three miles, to procure a copy of Ossian. Improving his musical predilections, he was found qualified, while still a young man, to officiate as precentor, or leader of the psalmody, in the church of his native parish. Resigning this appointment, and his situation in the Carron Works, he for some time taught church music in the neighbouring towns. On an invitation from the Kirk-session and congregation, he became precentor in the Old Kirk, Edinburgh; and in this office gained the active friendship of the respected clergyman, Dr Macknight.

Having attained a scientific acquaintance with the theory and practice of his art, Mr Finlayson resigned his appointment in the capital, and proceeded to the provinces as an instructor in vocal music. He visited the princ.i.p.al towns in the east and southern districts of Scotland, and was generally successful. During his professional visit to Dumfries in 1820, he became one of the founders of the Burns' Club in that town.

After a short absence in Canada, he settled in Kircudbright as a wine and spirit merchant. In 1832 he was appointed to the office of postmaster. Having retired from business a few years since, he enjoys the fruits of a well-earned competency. He has contributed songs to Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song beginning "Oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into German, and published with music at Leipsic.

THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP.

The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among, And echo repeats to the breezes his strain; Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng, And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain.

He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew, When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme; While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew, And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.

The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise, Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail!

E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays, And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.

Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine; Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer, They think not, alas! as they view his decline, That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.

Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes, And which souls that are songless can never enjoy; They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.

Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray, Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere; While the names that neglect thee have melted away, As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.

PH[OE]BUS, WI' GOWDEN CREST.

Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast An' frae the purple east smiles on the day; Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain, Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay; Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes, Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea; But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh, Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.

Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief-- Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie; Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings-- Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me.

Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair; Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue; But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create Anguish like parting, dear Annie, frae you.

Farewell, those beaming eyes, stars in life's wintry skies-- Aft has adversity fled frae your ray; Farewell, that angel smile, stranger to woman's wile, That ever could beguile sorrow away; Farewell, ilk happy scene, wild wood, an' valley green, Where time, on rapture's wing, over us flew; Farewell, that peace of heart, thou only could'st impart-- Farewell, dear Annie--a long, long adieu!