The bramble, black as jet, or sloes austere.
Hard fare but such as boyish appetite
Disdains not, nor the palate, undepraved

By culinary arts, unsavoury deems.

Cowper.

JUNE.

THE summer-time has come again,
With all its light and mirth,
And June leads on the laughing hours.
To bless the weary earth.

The sunshine lies along the street,

So dim and cold before,
And in the open window creeps,

And slumbers on the floor.

The country was so fresh and fine
And beautiful in May,

It must be more than beautiful-
A Paradise to-day!

If I were only there again,

I'd seek the lanes apart,

And shout aloud in mighty words,

To ease my happy heart.

Stoddard.

THERE WAS A LASS.

THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen.
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonie Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark And aye she sang sae merrily:

The blithest bird upon the bush

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,

The flower and pride of a' the glen; And he had owsen, sheep and kye, And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o' the stream

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;

So trembling, pure, was tender love,
Within the breast o' bonie Jean.

And now she works her mammie's wark,

And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; Yet wistna what her ail might be, Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,

Ae e'enin on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; His cheek to hers he fondly prest,

And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me.

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.

Robert Burns.

THE NATURALIST'S SUMMER-EVENING WALK.

WHEN day, declining, sheds a milder gleam,

What time the May-fly haunts the pool or stream;
When the still Owl skims round the grassy mead,
What time the timorous Hare limps forth to feed ;
Then be the time to steal adown the dale,
And listen to the vagrant Cuckoo's tale;
To hear the clamorous Curlew call his mate,
Or the soft Quail his tender pain relate;
To see the Swallow sweep the darkening plain
Belated, to support her infant train;
To mark the Swift in rapid giddy ring
Dash round the steeple, unsubdued of wing:
Amusive birds! say where your hid retreat
When the frost rages and the tempests beat;
Whence your return, by such nice instinct led,
When Spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head?
Such baffled searches mock man's prying pride,
The God of Nature is your secret guide!
While deepening shades obscure the face of day,
To yonder bench leaf-sheltered let us stray,
Till blended objects fail the swimming sight,
And all the fading landscape sinks in night;
To hear the drowsy Dor come brushing by
With buzzing wing, or the shrill Cricket cry ;
To see the feeding Bat glance through the wood;
To catch the distant falling of the flood;
While o'er the cliff th' awakened Churn-owl hung
Through the still gloom protracts his chattering song;