Fareweel to ilk strath an' the lav'rock's sweet sang-- For trifles grow dear whan we 've kenn'd them sae lang; Round the wanderer's heart a bright halo they shed, A dream o' the past, when a' other's hae fled.

The young hearts may kythe, though they 're forced far away, But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray; The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree, Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.

They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine; For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.

No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!

In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows, 'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din, 'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.

THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.

AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_

I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove, With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove; For the n.o.ble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell, Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.

I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure, And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure; While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.

When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright, And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight; Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far, Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.

Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread, When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head; While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells, To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.

'Tis Rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise, And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies, With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh; But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.

My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride, Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side, When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow, In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.

The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round, With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the ground.

Away, away, my falcon fair has spread her buoyant wings, While on the ear her silver voice as clear as metal rings.

Though high her soar, and far her flight, my whoop has struck her ear, And reclaiming for the lure, o'er my head she sallies near.

No other sport like falconry can make the bosom glow, When flying at the stately game, or raking at the crow.

Who mews a hawk must nurse her as a mother would her child, And soothe the wayward spirit of a thing so fierce and wild; Must woo her like a bride, while with love his bosom swells For the n.o.ble bird that bears the hood, the jessy, leash, and bells.

THE SALMON RUN.

AIR--_"The brave old Oak."_

Oh! away to the Tweed, To the beautiful Tweed, My much-loved native stream; Where the fish from his hold, 'Neath some cataract bold, Starts up like a quivering gleam.

From his iron-bound keep, Far down in the deep, He holds on his sovereign sway; Or darts like a lance, Or the meteor's glance, Afar on his bright-wing'd prey.

As he roves through the tide, Then his clear glitt'ring side Is burnish'd with silver and gold; And the sweep of his flight Seems a rainbow of light, As again he sinks down in his hold.

With a soft western breeze, That just thrills through the trees, And ripples the beautiful bay; Throw the fly for a lure-- That 's a rise! strike him sure-- A clean fish--with a burst he 's away.

Hark! the ravel line sweel, From the fast-whirring reel, With a music that gladdens the ear; And the thrill of delight, In that glorious fight, To the heart of the angler is dear.

Hold him tight--for the leap; Where the waters are deep, Give out line in the far steady run; Reel up quick, if he tire, Though the wheel be on fire, For in earnest to work he 's begun.

Aroused up at length, How he rolls in his strength, And springs with a quivering bound; Then away with a dash, Like the lightning's flash, Far o'er the smooth pebbly ground.

Though he strain on the thread, Down the stream with his head, That burst from the run makes him cool; Then spring out for the land, On the rod change the hand, And draw down for the deepening pool.

Mark the gleam of his side, As he shoots through the tide!

Are the dyes of the dolphin more fair?

Fatigue now begins, For his quivering fins On the shallows are spread in despair.

CHARLES MARSHALL.

The Rev. Charles Marshall, author of "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," is a native of Paisley. In early life he was engaged in mercantile concerns. At the University of Glasgow he studied for two sessions, and in 1826 completed a philosophical curriculum at the University of Edinburgh. In the following year he was chosen governor of John Watson's Inst.i.tution, Edinburgh, where he remained for thirteen years. During that time the directors of the inst.i.tution expressed their approbation of his services by large pecuniary donations, and by increasing his official emoluments. In addition to these expressions of liberality, they afforded him permission to attend the Divinity Hall. In 1840, on the completion of his theological studies, he was licensed as a probationer of the Established Church. In 1841 he accepted a call to the North Extension Church, Dunfermline. At the Disruption in 1843, he adhered to the Free Church. He continues to labour as minister of the Free North Church, Dunfermline.

To the moral and religious reformation of the industrial cla.s.ses, as well as the improvement of their physical condition, Mr Marshall has long been earnestly devoted. In 1853 he published a small volume of prose and poetry, addressed to industrial females, with the t.i.tle, "Lays and Lectures to Scotia's Daughters of Industry." This work rapidly pa.s.sed through various editions. In 1856 he appeared as the author of a similar publication, ent.i.tled "Homely Words and Songs for Working Men and Women," to which his former work has been added as a second part.

For terse and homely counsels, and vigorous and manly sentiments, adapted to the peculiar feelings and condition of the Scottish peasantry, these _brochures_ are without a parallel. Mr Marshall proposes to add to the series two other parts, addressed to "Husbands and Fathers," and to "Young Men."

THE BLESSING ON THE WARK.

I like to spring in the morning bricht, Before the mill bell rings; When waukening blithe in gowden licht, My joyfu' spirit sings.

I like to hear, when the pearly tear Gems morning's floweret cup, The trumpet summons of chanticleer Pipe "drowsy mortals up."

I tread as lightly as silent puss, While a' the household sleep; And gird me to clean and redd the house Before the bairnies cheep.

I like to dress and mak me clean As ony winsome bride; And think na shame, though my face be seen, At morn or eventide.

I like to handle, before I rin, The word o' truth and love; And seek, or the daily wark begin, Gude counsel from above.

Then skipping wi' lichtsome heart, I hie To earn my bit o' bread; The wark spins on, and the time rins by, Wi' pleasant, blessed speed.

JEWEL OF A LAD.