The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away.

Begin, ye tormentors, your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.

Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?

No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay, And the scalps which we bore from your nation away: Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain; But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I go to the land where my father is gone; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.

Death comes, like a friend, to relieve me from pain, And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

MY MOTHER BIDS ME BIND MY HAIR.

My mother bids me bind my hair With bands of rosy hue, Tie up my sleeves with ribbons rare, And lace my boddice blue.

"For why," she cries, "sit still and weep, While others dance and play?"

Alas! I scarce can go or creep, While Lubin is away.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone, When those we love were near; I sit upon this mossy stone, And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread, And sing my simple lay, The village seems asleep or dead, Now Lubin is away.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.[4]

Adieu! ye streams that smoothly glide, Through mazy windings o'er the plain; I 'll in some lonely cave reside, And ever mourn my faithful swain.

Flower of the forest was my love, Soft as the sighing summer's gale, Gentle and constant as the dove, Blooming as roses in the vale.

Alas! by Tweed my love did stray, For me he search'd the banks around; But, ah! the sad and fatal day, My love, the pride of swains, was drown'd.

Now droops the willow o'er the stream; Pale stalks his ghost in yonder grove; Dire fancy paints him in my dream; Awake, I mourn my hopeless love.

[4] Of the "Flowers of the Forest," two other versions appear in the Collections. That version beginning, "I've heard the lilting at our yow-milking," is the composition of Miss Jane Elliot, the daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto, Lord Justice-Clerk, who died in 1766. She composed the song about the middle of the century, in imitation of an old version to the same tune. The other version, which is the most popular of the three, with the opening line, "I 've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling," was also the composition of a lady, Miss Alison Rutherford; by marriage, Mrs c.o.c.kburn, wife of Mr Patrick c.o.c.kburn, advocate. Mrs c.o.c.kburn was a person of highly superior accomplishments.

She a.s.sociated with her learned contemporaries, by whom she was much esteemed, and died at Edinburgh in 1794, at an advanced age. "The forest" mentioned in the song comprehended the county of Selkirk, with portions of Peeblesshire and Lanarkshire. This was a hunting-forest of the Scottish kings.

THE SEASON COMES WHEN FIRST WE MET.

The season comes when first we met, But you return no more; Why cannot I the days forget, Which time can ne'er restore?

O! days too sweet, too bright to last, Are you, indeed, for ever past?

The fleeting shadows of delight, In memory I trace; In fancy stop their rapid flight, And all the past replace; But, ah! I wake to endless woes, And tears the fading visions close!

OH, TUNEFUL VOICE! I STILL DEPLORE.

Oh, tuneful voice! I still deplore Those accents which, though heard no more, Still vibrate in my heart; In echo's cave I long to dwell, And still would hear the sad farewell, When we were doom'd to part.

Bright eyes! O that the task were mine, To guard the liquid fires that shine, And round your orbits play-- To watch them with a vestal's care, And feed with smiles a light so fair, That it may ne'er decay!

DEAR TO MY HEART AS LIFE'S WARM STREAM.[5]

Dear to my heart as life's warm stream, Which animates this mortal clay; For thee I court the waking dream, And deck with smiles the future day; And thus beguile the present pain, With hopes that we shall meet again!

Yet will it be as when the past Twined every joy, and care, and thought, And o'er our minds one mantle cast, Of kind affections finely wrought.

Ah, no! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne'er can meet again!

May he who claims thy tender heart, Deserve its love as I have done!

For, kind and gentle as thou art, If so beloved, thou 'rt fairly won.

Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again!

[5] These lines were addressed by Mrs Hunter to her daughter, on the occasion of her marriage.

THE LOT OF THOUSANDS.

When hope lies dead within the heart, By secret sorrow close conceal'd, We shrink lest looks or words impart What must not be reveal'd.

'Tis hard to smile when one would weep, To speak when one would silent be; To wake when one should wish to sleep, And wake to agony.

Yet such the lot by thousands cast, Who wander in this world of care, And bend beneath the bitter blast, To save them from despair.

But Nature waits her guests to greet, Where disappointments cannot come, And Time guides, with unerring feet, The weary wanderers home.