Thy steep winding pa.s.ses, where warriors have trod, Which minstrels of yore often made their abode-- Where Ossian and Fingal rehea.r.s.ed runic tales, That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales.

How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!

Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell; I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild, With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.

There is a bonnie, blushing flower-- But ah! I darena breathe the name; I fain would steal it frae its bower, Though a' should think me sair to blame.

It smiles sae sweet amang the rest, Like brightest star where ither's shine; Fain would I place it in my breast, And make this bonnie blossom mine.

At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er I see this fair, this fav'rite flower, My heart beats high with wish sincere, To wile it frae its bonnie bower!

But oh! I fear to own its charms, Or tear it frae its parent stem; For should it wither in mine arms, What would revive my bonnie gem?

Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'-- That flower can never fade with me, That frae the wintry winds that blaw Round each neglected bud is free!

No, it shall only bloom more fair, When cherished and adored by me; And a' my joy, and a' my care, This bonnie, blushing flower shall be!

THE MAID OF GLENCOE.

TUNE--_"Come under my plaidie."_

Once more in the Highlands I wander alone, Where the thistle and heather are bonnie and blown; By mountain and streamlet, by cavern and glen, Where echo repeats the sweet wood-notes again.

Give courtiers their gay-gilded halls and their grandeur, Give misers their gold, all the bliss they can know; But let me meet Flora, while pensive I wander-- Fair Flora, dear Flora! the maid of Glencoe!

Oh, first when we met, being handsome and gay, I felt she had stole my affections away; The mavis sang loud on the sweet hawthorn tree, But her voice was more sweet and endearing to me.

The sun spread his rays of bright gold o'er the fountain, The hours glided by without languor or woe, As we pull'd the sweet flowers from the steep rocky mountains-- My blessings attend thee, sweet maid of Glencoe!

The glen is more rugged, the scene more sublime, Now hallow'd by love, and by absence, and time!

And fondly resemble the thoughts of my heart, Untouch'd by the cold soothing fingers of art.

And lo! as I gaze on the charms of my childhood, Where bright in the heath-bell the dew-drops still glow, A fairy-like form ushers forth from the wild wood-- 'Tis Flora, fair Flora! the maid of Glencoe.

MARION PAUL AIRD.

The accomplished and amiable author of "Heart Histories" and other poems, Marion Paul Aird, is a native of Glasgow. Her paternal ancestors were respectable yeomen in the Carrick district of Ayrshire. Her mother, a niece of Hamilton Paul, formerly noticed,[13] was descended from a race of opulent landowners in the district of Cunningham. In her youth, Miss Aird had her abode in a romantic cottage at Govan Hill, in the vicinity of Glasgow. For a number of years she has resided in Kilmarnock. She early studied the British poets, and herself wrote verses. In 1846 she published a duodecimo volume of poems and lyrics, ent.i.tled "The Home of the Heart, and other Poems;" this was followed in 1853 by a volume of prose and verse, under the t.i.tle of "Heart Histories." She has two new volumes of poetry ready for the press. Her poetry is largely pervaded by religious fervour and devoted earnestness.

FOOTNOTES:

[13] See vol. ii., p. 120.

THE FA' O' THE LEAF.

'Tis the fa' o' the leaf, and the cauld winds are blawin', The wee birds, a' sangless, are dowie and wae; The green leaf is sear, an' the brown leaf is fa'in', Wan Nature lamentin' o'er simmer's decay.

Noo drumlie an' dark row the siller-like waters, No a gowden-e'ed gowan on a' the green lea; Her snell breath, wi' anger, in darkness noo scatters The wee flowers, that danced to the sang o' the bee.

The green leaves o' simmer sing hopefu' an' cheerie, When bonnie they smile in the sun's gowden ray; But dowie when sear leaves in autumn winds eerie Sigh, "Life, love, and beauty, as flowers ye decay."

How waefu' the heart, where young hopes that gather, Like spring-flowers in simmer, "are a' wede awa';"

An' the rose-bloom o' beauty, e'er autumn winds wither, Like green leaves unfaded, lie cauld in the snaw:

But waefu' to see, as a naked tree lanely, Man shake like a wan leaf in poort.i.th's cauld blast; The last o' his kin, sighin', "Autumn is gane by,"

An' the wrinkles o' eild tell "his simmer is past."

The fire that 's blawn out, ance mair may be lighted, An' a wee spark o' hope in the cauld heart may burn; An' the "morning star" break on the traveller benighted, An' day, wi' its fresh gushing glories, return:

But dool, dool the fa', when shakes the clay shielin', An' the last keek o' day sets for ever in night!

When no ae wee star through the dark clud is stealin', Through the cauld wave o' death, his dark spirit to light.

The spring flowers o' life, a' sae blythesome and bonnie, Though wither'd and torn frae the heart far awa', An' the flower we thought fadeless, the fairest o' onie, May spring up again whar nae freezin' winds blaw.

Kin' spring 'll woo back the green "bud to the timmer,"

Its heart burst in blossom 'neath simmer's warm breath; But when shall the warm blush o' life's faded simmer Bring back the rose-bloom frae the winter o' death?

How kin' should the heart be, aye warm an' forgi'en, When sune, like a leaf, we maun a' fade awa'; When life's winter day as a shadow is fleein'-- But simmer aye shines whar nae autumn leaves fa'!

THE AULD KIRK-YARD.

Calm sleep the village dead In the auld kirk-yard; But softly, slowly tread In the auld kirk-yard; For the weary, weary rest, Wi' the green turf on their breast, And the ashes o' the blest Flower the auld kirk-yard.

Oh! many a tale it hath, The auld kirk-yard, Of life's crooked th.o.r.n.y path To the auld kirk-yard.

But mortality's thick gloom Clouds the sunny world's bloom, Veils the mystery of doom, In the auld kirk-yard.

A thousand memories spring In the auld kirk-yard, Though time's death-brooding wing Shade the auld kirk-yard.

The light of many a hearth, Its music and its mirth, Sleep in the deep dark earth Of the auld kirk-yard.

Nae dreams disturb their sleep In the auld kirk-yard; They hear nae kindred weep In the auld kirk-yard.

The sire, with silver hair, The mother's heart of care, The young, the gay, the fair, Crowd the auld kirk-yard.

So live that ye may lie In the auld kirk-yard, Wi' a pa.s.sport to the sky Frae the auld kirk-yard; That when thy sand is run, And life's weary warfare done, Ye may sing o' victory won Where there 's nae kirk-yard.