I guess by the dear angel smile, 'Gainst fortune's fell, cruel decree-Jessy! Here's a health, &c. THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, Bonnie lassie, &c. While o'er their heads the hazels hing, The little birdies blithely sing, Or lightly flit on wanton wing In the birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. The braes ascend like lofty wa's, Bonnie lassie, &c. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, Bonnie lassie, &c. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, Bonnie lassie, &c. I LOVE MY JEAN. TUNE-" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." Or a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs, JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, John Anderson my jo, John, THE POSIE. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms with out a peer; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose when Phœbus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o'siller gray, tak away; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear: The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. THE BANKS O' DOON. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, ? Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, SONG. TUNE-"Catharine Ogie." Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, And I sae fu' o' care! Thou'l break my heart, thou bonnie bird Thou'l break my heart, thou bonnie bird That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wist na o' my fate. Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, And my fause luver staw the rose, SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie; She has an e'e, she has but ane, The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, Her nose and chin they threaten ither; She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, The twin o' that upon her shouther; Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? WILT thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee? By the treasure of my soul, Lassie, say thou lo'es me; Or if thou wilt na be my ain, If it winna, canna be, FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. My heart is sair, I dare na tell, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, A RED, RED ROSE. O MY luve's like a red, red rose, As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! SONG. AE fond kiss and then we sever; I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. O How can I be blithe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best, Is o'er the hills and far awa? It's no the frosty winter wind, My father pat me frae his door, My friends they hae disown'd me a'; But I hae ane will tak my part, The bonnie lad that's far awa. A pair o' gloves he gave to me, The weary winter soon will pass, WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. FIRST when Maggy was my care, How we live, my Meg and me, 30 υ 2 359 SAMUEL ROGERS. SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant of the | a recent edition has been given to the world, accomBritish poets, was the son of a banker, and himself panied with numerous engravings. This poem is follows that business in London, where he was born, about 1760. He received a learned education, which he completed by travelling through most of the countries of Europe, including France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, &c. He has been all his life master of an ample fortune, and not subject, therefore, to the common reverses of an author, in which character he first appeared in 1787, when he published a spirited Ode to Superstition, with other poems. These were succeeded, after an interval of five years, by the Pleasures of Memory; a work which at once established his fame as a first-rate poet. In 1798, he published his Epistle to a Friend, with other poems; and did not again come forward, as a poet, till 1814, when he added to a collected edition of his works, his somewhat irregular poem of the Vision of Columbus. In the same year came out his Jaqueline, a tale, in company with Lord Byron's Lara; and, in 1819, his Human Life. In 1822, was published his first part of Italy, which has since been completed, in three volumes, duodecimo; and of which, | Campbell." his last and greatest, but by no means his best, performance; though an eminent writer in the New Monthly Magazine calls it "perfect as a whole." There are certainly many very beautiful descriptive passages to be found in it; and it is totally free from meretriciousness: but we think the author has too often mistaken commonplace for simplicity, to render it of much value to his reputation, as a whole. It is as the author of the Pleasures of Memory, that he will be chiefly known to posterity, though, at the same time, some of his minor poems are among the most pure and exquisite fragments of verse, which the poets of this age have produced. In society, few men are said to be more agreeable in manners and conversation than the venerable subject of our memoir; and his benevolence is said to be on a par with his taste and accomplishments. Lord Byron must have thought highly of his poetry, if he were sincere in saying, "We are all wrong, excepting Rogers, Crabbe, and O COULD my mind, unfolded in my page, THE poem begins with the description of an obscure village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect we naturally ascend to the cause; and the subject proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of the nature and leading principles of this faculty. It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, and introduce each other with a certain degree of regu larity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; and its many sources of pleasures to them, as well as to us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second. When ideas have any relation whatever, they are attractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in time or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our attachment to inanimate objects; hence also, in some degree, the love of our country, and the emotion with which we contemplate the celebrated scenes of antiquity. Hence a picture directs our thoughts to the original: and, as cold and darkness suggest forcibly the ideas of heat and light, he who feels the infirmities of age dwells most on whatever reminds him of the vigour and vivacity of his youth. The associating principle, as here employed, is no less conducive to virtue than to happiness; and, as such, it frequently discovers itself in the most tumultuous scenes of life. It addresses our finer feelings, and gives exercise to every mild and generous propensity. Not confined to man, it extends through all animated nature; and its effect sare peculiarly striking in the domestic tribes. TWILIGHT'S soft dews steal o'er the village-green, With magic tints to harmonize the scene. Still'd is the hum that through the hamlet broke, When round the ruins of their ancient oak The peasants flock'd to hear the minstrel play, And games and carols closed the busy day. Her wheel at rest, the matron thrills no more With treasured tales, and legendary lore. All, all are fled; nor mirth nor music flows To chase the dreams of innocent repose. All, all are fled; yet still I linger here! What secret charms this silent spot endear! Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees, Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze. That casement arch'd with ivy's brownest shade, First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd. The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court, Once the calm scene of many a simple sport; [hung, See, through the fractured pediment reveal'd, Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield, The martin's old, hereditary nest: Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest! As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! O haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest And all was sunshine in each little breast. 'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blindfold hero round and round. 'Twas here, at eve, we form'd our fairy ring; And fancy flutter'd on her wildest wing. Giants and genii chain'd each wondering ear; And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear. Oft with the babes we wander'd in the wood, Or view'd the forest feats of Robin Hood: Oft, fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour, With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, Murder'd by ruffian hands, when smiling in its sleep. Ye household deities! whose guardian eye Mark'd each pure thought, ere register'd on high; Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground, And breathe the soul of inspiration round. As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. The storied arras, source of fond delight, With old achievement charms the wilder'd sight; And still, with heraldry's rich hues imprest, On the dim window glows the pictured crest. The screen unfolds its many-colour'd chart, The clock still points its moral to the heart. That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near; And has its sober hand, its simple chime, Forgot to trace the feather'd feet of time? That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought, Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought; Those muskets, cased with venerable rust ; Those once-loved forms, still breathing through their dust, Still, from the frame in mould gigantic cast, As through the garden's desert paths I rove, Childhood's loved group revisits every scene As when in ocean sinks the orb of day, The school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed |