The braes ascend, like lofty wa's,

The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, woods
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crowned wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, cascades And rising, weets wi' misty showers

The birks of Aberfeldy.

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE.

My lord, I know your noble ear
Wo ne'er assails in vain;
Emboldened thus, I beg you'll hear
Your humble slave complain,

1"The first object of interest that occurs upon the public road after leaving Blair, is a chasm in the hill on the right hand, through which the little river Bruar falls over a series of beautiful cascades. Formerly, the Falls of the Bruar were unadorned by wood; but the poet Burns, being conducted to

How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams,
In flaming summer-pride,
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.

The lightly-jumpin' glowrin' trouts,
That through my waters play,
If, in their random, wanton spouts,
They near the margin stray;
If, hapless chance! they linger lang,
I'm scorching up so shallow,
They're left the whitening stanes amang,
In gasping death to wallow..

staring

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, wept-vexation

As Poet Burns came by,

That to a bard I should be seen
Wi' half my channel dry:
A panegyric rhyme, I ween,

Even as I was he shored me;

But bad I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad adored me.

promised

see them (September 1787,) after visiting the Duke of Athole, recommended that they should be invested with that necessary decoration. Accordingly, trees have been thickly planted along the chasm, and are now far advanced to maturity. Throughout this young forest a walk has been cut, and a number of fantastic little grottos erected for the conveniency of those who visit the spot. The river not only makes several distinct falls, but rushes on through a channel, whose roughness and haggard sublimity adds greatly to the merits of the scene, as an object of interest among tourists." - Picture of Scotland.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,

In twisting strength I rin;

There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild roaring o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well,

As Nature gave them me,
I am, although I say't mysel',
Worth gaun a mile to see.

cascade

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' towering trees,
And bonny spreading bushes.
Delighted doubly then, my lord,
You'll wander on my banks,

And listen monie a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;

lark

The gowdspink, Music's gayest child, goldfinch Shall sweetly join the choir:

The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, linnet

The mavis mild and mellow,

The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her locks of yellow.

This, too, a covert shall insure

To shield them from the storm;

And coward maukin sleep secure,

thrush

hare

Low in her grassy form.

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flowers;
Or find a sheltering safe retreat
From prone descending showers.

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising worlds with all their wealth
As empty idle care.

The flowers shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heaven to grace,

And birks extend their fragrant arms
To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
And misty mountain gray;
Or by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-chequering through the trees,
Rave to my darkly dashing stream,
Hoarse swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep bending in the pool,
Their shadows' watery bed!

Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest
My craggy cliffs adorn ;

And, for the little songster's nest,
The close embowering thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honoured native land!

So may, through Albion's farthest ken,
To social-flowing glasses,

The grace be-"Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonny lasses!"

VERSES

WRITTEN WHILE STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods,
The foaming Fyers pours his mossy floods;
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,
Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream
resounds.

As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below;

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet de

scends,

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends.