THE LINNET.

Tuck, tuck, feer--from the green and growing leaves; Ic, ic, ic--from the little song-bird's throat; How the silver chorus weaves in the sun and 'neath the eaves, While from dewy clover fields comes the lowing of the beeves, And the summer in the heavens is afloat!

Wye, wye, chir--'tis the little linnet sings; Weet, weet, weet--how his pipy treble trills!

In his bill and on his wings what a joy the linnet brings, As over all the sunny earth his merry lay he flings, Giving gladness to the music of the rills!

Ic, ic, ir--from a happy heart unbound; Lug, lug, jee--from the dawn till close of day!

There is rapture in the sound as it fills the sunshine round, Till the ploughman's careless whistle, and the shepherd's pipe are drown'd, And the mower sings unheeded 'mong the hay!

Jug, jug, joey--oh, how sweet the linnet's theme!

Peu, peu, poy--is he wooing all the while?

Does he dream he is in heaven, and is telling now his dream, To soothe the heart of pretty girl basking by the stream, Or waiting for her lover at the stile?

Pipe, pipe, chow--will the linnet never weary?

Bel bel, tyr--is he pouring forth his vows?

The maiden lone and dreary may feel her heart grow cheery, Yet none may know the linnet's bliss except his own sweet dearie, With her little household nestled 'mong the boughs!

WILLIAM BROCKIE.

William Brockie was born in the parish of Smailholm, Roxburghshire. He entered on the world of letters by the publication of a small periodical, ent.i.tled _The Galashiels Weekly Journal_. He subsequently edited _The Border Watch_, a newspaper originated at Kelso on behalf of the Free Church. This concern proving unfortunate, he obtained, after a short residence at Prestonkirk, East Lothian, the editorship of the _Shields Gazette_. Compelled to relinquish editorial labour from impaired health, Mr Brockie has latterly established a private academy at South Shields, and has qualified himself to impart instruction in fourteen different languages. Besides a number of pamphlets on a variety of subjects, he has published a "History of South Shields," and a poem, ent.i.tled, "The Dusk and the Dawn."

YE 'LL NEVER GANG BACK TO YER MITHER NAE MAIR.

What ails ye, my la.s.sie, my dawtie, my ain?

I 've gien ye my word, and I 'll gie ye 't again.

There 's naething to fear ye--be lichtsome and cheerie; I 'll never forsake ye, nor leave ye yer lane.

We 're sune to be married--I needna say mair; Our love will be leal, though our livin' be bare; In a house o' our ain we 'll be cantie and fain, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

We needna be troubled ere trouble be sprung; The warld 's afore us--we 're puir, but we 're young; An' fate will be kind if we 're willint in mind-- Sae keep up yer heart, la.s.s, and dinna be dung.

Folk a' hae their troubles, and we 'll get our share, But we 'll warsle out through them, and scorn to despair; Sae cheer up yer heart, for we never shall part, An' ye 'll never gang back to yer mither nae mair.

While we live for each other, our lot will be blest; An' though freens sud forget us, they 'll never be miss'd; We 'll sit down at e'en by the ingle sae bien, An' the cares o' the world 'ill a' be dismiss'd.

A couple that strive to be honest and fair May be rich without siller, and guid without lear; Be gentle and true, an' yese never need rue, Nor sigh to win back to yer mither nae mair.

ALEXANDER M'LACHLAN.

Alexander M'Lachlan, author of the following song was born at Pinshall, in the parish of St Ninians, Stirlingshire. He has resided, since 1825, at Muirside in the vicinity of his native place.

THE LANG WINTER E'EN.

Sweet summer 's awa, wi' her verdure sae fair; The ance bonny woodlands are leafless an' bare; To the cot wee robin returns for a screen Frae the cauld stormy blast o' the lang winter e'en.

But charms there are still, though nature has nane, When the hard rackin' toils o' the day by are gane, Then round the fireside social hearts do convene, And pleasantly pa.s.s the lang winter e'en.

O' warldly wealth I hae got little share, Yet riches and wealth breed but sorrow and care; Just gi'e me an hour wi' some auld honest frien', To crack o'er youth's joys in the lang winter e'en.

The thochts o' our youth are lichtsome and dear, Like the strains o' the lute they fa' saft on the ear, But chiefly the bliss I ha'e shared wi' my Jean In some love-screenin' shade on a lang winter e'en.

THOMAS YOUNG.

The author of "The Four Pilgrims, or, Life's Mission; and other Poems,"

a volume of respectable poetry, published at Dundee in 1849, Thomas Young, was born at Tulliebeltane, in the parish of Auchtergaven, Perthshire, in 1815. Receiving an ordinary school education, he accepted, in his twentieth year, a situation in the office of the _Dundee Advertiser_, where he continued till 1851, when a change occurred in the proprietorship. He now proceeded to New York, where he remained about eighteen months. Disappointed in obtaining a suitable appointment, he sailed for Australia; but the vessel being unable to proceed further than Rio de Janeiro, he there procured a situation, with an annual salary of 300. The climate of Rio proving unfavourable, he afterwards sailed to Australia, where he readily found occupation at Mount Alexander. He has been successful at the gold diggings.

ANTOINETTE; OR, THE FALLS.

By Niagara's flood Antoinette stood, And watch'd the wild waves rush on, As they leapt below Into vapoury snow, Or fell into flakes of foam.

The sun's last beams Fell in golden gleams On water and wave-girt isle, And in tinge all fair Dipp'd the girl's bright hair And heighten'd her happy smile.

Away--away!

In wild ecstasy She threads the abyss's brink, Where waters--black-- Of the cataract Into drifted snow-waves sink.

A father's eye Looketh anxiously On the freaks of his favour'd child, Till her spirit appals His soul, and he calls "Antoinette" in accents wild.

A bolder heart Loves the girl's free sport, And he grasps her by the gown, Then tosseth her high In the twilight sky-- But, heavens! she falleth down!

She sinks in the wave; He swimmeth to save!

Oh, never was mortal arm More manfully braced, As it grasps her slim waist, And struggles in frantic alarm!

In vain does he strike-- The fresh waves break, And the doom'd ones are downward borne!

Yet the swimmer's eye Seemeth still to defy The might of the merciless storm.