Oh no! sad and slow!

I hear nae welcome sound; The shadow of our trysting-bush, It wears so slowly round!

My sheep-bell tinkles frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I lo'e best,

Alack! I canna hear!

Oh no! sad and slow!

The shadow lingers still;

And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din;
And luckey scolding frae the door,
To bring the bairnies in.

Oh no! sad and slow!

These are nae sounds for me;

The shadow of our trysting-bush,
It creeps sae drearily!

I coft yestreen from chapman Tam

A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promis'd, when our trysting cam,

To tie it round her brow.

Oh no! sad and slow!

The time it winna pass!
The shadow of that weary thorn
Is tether'd on the grass.

She's past the Witch's knowe;

She's climbing up the Brownie's brae;

My heart is in a lowe.

Oh no! sad and slow!

'Tis glamrie I hae seen;

The shadow of that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Tho' conn'd wi' little skill;

When colley barks I'll raise my head,

And find her on the hill.

Oh no! 'tis nae so!

The time will ne'er be gane! The shadow of the trysting-bush

Is fix'd like ony stane.

SCOTT.

In the third volume of Ellis's Specimens of the E. E. P. are two poems by Miss Scott of Ancram. The following is one of them.

The Owl.

WHILE the Moon, with sudden gleam,

Thro' the clouds that cover her,
Darts her light upon the stream,
And the poplars gently stir,
Pleas'd I hear thy boding cry!
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
Sure, thy notes are harmony!

While the maiden, pale with care,
Wanders to the lonely shade,

Sighs her sorrows to the air,

Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,

To her it is not harmony!

408

SCOTT.

While the wretch, with mournful dole,

Wrings his hands in agony,
Praying for his brother's soul
Whom he pierced suddenly,-

Shrinks to hear thy boding cry,-
Owl, that lov'st the cloudy sky,
To him it is not harmony.

AMELIA OPIE.

The Orphan Boy's Tale.

STAY, lady, stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale,
Ah! sure my looks must pity wake,
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale.

Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy; But in the Nile's proud fight he died, And I am now an orphan boy.

Poor foolish child! how pleas'd was I, When news of Nelson's victory came, Along the crowded streets to fly,

And see the lighted windows flame! To force me home my mother sought, She could not bear to see my joy; For with my father's life 'twas bought, And made me a poor orphan boy.