I'll think o' thee, my Mary Steel,
When the winds rave high,

And the tempest wild is pourin' down,
Frae the dark and troubled sky;
When a hopeless wail is heard on land,
And shrieks frae the roaring sea,
And the wreck o' Nature seems at hand
My thoughts shall be o' thee!

THOU KEN'ST MARY HAY.

(THE AULD HUSBAND'S APPEAL TO HIS MARY).

TUNE: "BONNIE MARY HAY."

HOU ken'st Mary Hay, that I loe thee weel,

THO

My ain auld wife sae canty and leal,

Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e,
And look aye sae wae, when thou look'st at me?

Dost thou miss Mary Hay, the soft bloom o' my cheek,
And the hair curling round it sae gentie and sleek?
For the snaw's on my head, and the roses are gane,
Since that day o' days I first ca'd thee my ain.

But though, Mary Hay, my auld e'en be grown dim,
An' age wi' its frost, mak's cauld every limb,
My heart thou kens weel has nae cauldness for thee
For summer returns at the blink o' thine e'e.

The miser hauds firmer and firmer his gold
The ivy sticks close to the tree when it's old,
And still thou grow'st dearer to me, Mary Hay
As a' else turns eerie, and life wears away.

We maun part, Mary Hay, when our journey is done, But I'll meet thee again in the bright world aboon, Then what gars thee stand wi' the tear in thine e'e, And look aye sae wae, when thon look'st at me?

MARY OF SWEET ABERFOYLE.

THE

HE sun had na peeped frae behind the dark billow, The slow-sinking moon half illumin'd the scene, As I lifted my head frae my care-haunted pillow, And waner'd to muse on the days that were gane. Sweet hope seem'd to smile o'er ideas romantic,

An' gay were the dreams that my soul would beguile; But my eyes fill'd wi' tears as I view'd the Atlantic, An' thought on my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

Though frae from my home in a tropical wild-wood,
Yet the fields o' my forefathers rose on my view;
And I wept when I thought on the days of my childhood,
An' the vision more painful the brighter it grew.

Sweet days! when my bosom with rapture was swelling,

Though I knew it not then, it was love made me smile; Oh! the snaw-wreath is pure where the moonbeams are dwelling,

Yet as pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

When the mirk cloud o' fortune aboon my head gathers,

An' the golden show'r fa's where it ne'er fell before, Ah! then I'll revisit the land of my father's,

And clasp to this bosom the lass I adore.

Hear me ye angels, who watch o'er my maiden,
(Like ane o' yoursel's she is free frae a' guile),

Pure as was love in the garden of Eden,
Sae pure is my Mary of sweet Aberfoyle.

MARIE.

(SINGING).

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.

HE beaut'ous flower of spring

THE

Opens its leaves in the wood, and

Smiles, a curious mys' try fine,
Stirred by the zephyr's mood,
And its stalk so light and fresh
Feels its petals slowly open;—
Down to its roots in the earth,
Tremb'ling with joyful emotion.

'Tis thus when my gentle Marie
While singing, her dear lips part;
Raising above her azure eyes,
Her sensitive soul and heart-
Seems bathed in a buoyant fire
Of harmony and of light,

Then rising in tremulous joy

Aspires to the Heaven's so bright.

TRANS. E. V. B.

A FRENCH SAILOR'S ADIEU TO MARIE.

A FLOWER FOR RESPONSE.

UR ship is about to sail Marie; for long I shall not see

"OUR

thee,

In going so far away may I have a keepsake?

If not for love at least for hope: I'm going, adieu Marie!

I leave to-morrow.

If you will regret me, oh! I beg

Give me that flower darling your hand has touched.

If that flower were given to me, by you,

Even in leaving, I should feel some joy;

And when far away from you, that faded rose,

Will be ever there, ever there on my heart."

The poor child trembled 'neath his gaze;

Sad and dreaming she implored God's help, and he, in a

voice

Both tender and reproachful, said:

"You're silent, ah! you do not love me-I'm going
My heart is wounded. Adieu! I go to-morrow."
He was turning away, when that cherished flower
Dropped from her hand into his.

FROM "MUSIC OF THE WATERS," BY L. A. SMITH.

TO MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

(ON HER DEPARTURE FROM FRANCE).

FROM THE FRENCH.

'HE day that was to bear her far away!

"THE

Why was I mortal to behold that day?

O! France, where are thy ancient champions gone,
Roland, Rinaldo? is there living none

Her steps to follow, and her safety guard,

And deem her lovely looks their best reward!

All beauty granted as a boon to earth,

That is, has been, or ever can have birth,
Compar'd to her's is void, and Nature's care,
Ne'er form'd a creature so divinely fair.

*