Binding upon his brow the holly wreath
That crown'd him king of song in life and death.
We hail with joy and pride his natal day;
Our votive offerings on his shrine we lay,
And pay with honours meet and high regard
The homage due to Scotia's deathless bard.
Deem'd not his sire, nor mother faint and worn,
That to their arms that wild and wintry morn
A child of genius, heir of song and fame,
Was given. The halo circling round his name
Still broader, brighter grows; within its light
In bonds of brotherhood we meet to-night,
And hail with glowing hearts, with song and mirth, The day's return that saw the poet's birth,
"Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled"
Long laid to rest on freedom's
gory bedNot, as of yore, in battle's fierce turmoil:
We meet as brothers on fair England's soil,
And here with clasping hands and hearts unite,
While mingling round the festive board to-night,
To hail the infant year, for then returns
The day we bless-The natal day of Burns.
4X4 Revoupo A NEWLY-FORMED
Tip, Phase, a Noolių. heightoni son of Mong,
Who balik swan hệ maitai hund along
The polder steings al Ciedonis's (ura,
And ponda in magic semin, and words of fire
The witching, song of love, its hopes and fears
Oi love in douth, embolined with burning tears,
O; blooming. Nature in her flow by primez
Of pathon, doop, and montiment sublima,
Of humom quaint, and wis koon lightning glance;
The midnight, ongres of the witches dance;
The song of Nainvday's sweet evening rest,
Dem to the coiiai, eve of Sabbath blest
No sweeter music poets hand hath wrung
Prom Sootaa lyre - - no son of genius sung
In lofter strains- no patriot's battle cry
Lake his can nerve the arm when foes are nigh,
But time forbids that we should longer dwel
On themes that thrill the heart, the
The name, the tuneful fame of P
Still to the "aul' clay biggin'
Where Scotia's genius, roh
In vision'd beauty, by
Binding upon his brow the holly wreath
That crown'd him king of song in life and death.
We hail with joy and pride his natal day;
Our votive offerings on his shrine we lay,
And pay with honours meet and high regard
The homage due to Scotia's deathless bard.
Deem'd not his sire, nor mother faint and worn,
That to their arms that wild and wintry morn
A child of genius, heir of song and fame,
Was given. The halo circling round his name
Still broader, brighter grows; within its light
In bonds of brotherhood we meet to night,
And hail with glowing hearts, with song and mirth,
The day's return that saw the poet's birth,
Not now as "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled"
Long laid to rest on freedom's gory bed-
Not, as of yore, in battle's fierce turmoil;
We meet as brothers on fair England's soil,
And here with clasping hands and hearts unite,
While r
MOTHER AND CHILD.
O COME, little Mary, the woods are in tune
With the birds and the breezes of bright sunny June,
For the brook in the woodland to-day we are bound,
With green leaves above us and blossoms around.
To chase the swift minow, and plash in the stream,
Pick sorrel and flowers on its margin that gleam,
And weave with green rushes a coronet fair
To crown thy white brow and thy long, shining hair.
Now warble thy wood-notes, sweet bird of my heart,
All Nature rejoices, and thou must take part
In her hymn'd adorations, and raise thy soft eyes
To thy father who dwells in yon blue shining skies.
How lovely the mingling of leaflet and flower!
How sweet the wild music in woodland and bower!
More lovely the gaze of thy worshipping eyes,
And sweeter to heaven shall thine anthem arise.
On this soft, mossy bank, where a queen might recline,
Where wild rose and hawthorn their branches entwine,
Come seat thee, and listen the song of the thrush
While the breeze rocks his young in their green cradle
bush.
Be grateful, dear Mary; what blessings are thine!-
Kind parents on earth, and a Father divine,
The beauties of Nature, the riches of grace,
The kingdom of heaven, and the light of His face.
SONG-THE COUTHIE AULD MAN.
Wr' a blush, an' a glint o' true love frae her e'e,
Her bonnie white haunie, sae saft an' sae wee,
A' tremelin' she laid in my braid, waukit loof:"
"I'm your's, John, for ever-tak that for the proof."
My heart it gaed duntin'; Oh funeuch and fain
Was I whan I ca'd the dear lassie my ain;
An' the saft haun I chirted, and pree'd the wee mou'
Sae an' rich wi' luve's sweet honey-dew.
The auld wife consented, the auld man an' a'
To gie me their dochter, an' blest was my fa';
Tho' my luve an' their blessin' was a' the bride's gear,
We've throught weel an' thriven this mony a year.
We hae a bit mailin' wi' whilk we can fen,
We've sax bonnie bairns grown to women an' men;
My lassies are winsome, an' warkrife, an' douce,
An' my callan's, "gude-sain" them, are stoops o' the house.
An' noo the white haunie is runkled an' lean,
An' dim is the licht in the luve-glintin' een,
An' the rich rosy lips noo are wallow't an' wan,
But the're aye juist as sweet to the couthie auld man.
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