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But there's nae hand can loose the band,

Save the finger o' God above. Tho' the wee, wee cot maun be my

bield, An' my claithing e'er sae mean, I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds of love,

Heaven's armfu'o'my Jean!

Her white arm would be a pillow to me,

Fu' safter than the down,
An' Love wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings,

An’sweetly I'd sleep, an' soun'.
Come here to me, thou lass o' my love,

Come here and kneel wi' me;
The morning is fu' o' the presence o' God,

An' I canna pray but thee.

The morn-wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers,

The wee birds sing kindly an' hie,
Our gudeman leans owre the kail-yard dyke,

An' a blythe auld body is he.
The Book maun be taen when the carle comes bame,

Wi' the holy psalmodie,
An' thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

An' I will speak o' thee !

It 's HAME, AND IT 's HAME. It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree ! When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree ! It 's hame, and it 's hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree !

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an'a'
But I'll water 't wi' the blude o' uzurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countree.

It's hame, an' it's hame, hame sain wad I be,
An' it 's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree !

There's naught now frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs that died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countree.
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save,
The new grass is springing on the tap o' their

grave: But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my ee : 'T 'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be. An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain conntree !

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,

And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

Oh, for a soft and a gentle wind !

I heard a fair one cry!
But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high ;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud ;

And hark the music, mariners !

The wind is piping loud ;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

(UNDER the assumed name of Barry Cornwall, Mr. PROCTER has written many short Poems, so graceful and elegant that the pleasure which they give is mingled with the regret that he, like many other workers in this every day life, should have, in great part, bidden 'Farewell to his Muse.' Whilst the Scotch, from the days of Allan Ramsay, have been carrying away most of the honors of song-writers, Mr. Procter has made a vigorous effort to maintain our good old English reputation in this walk. Thomas Moore is, of course, an exception to the general superiority of those who have cultivated the Doric language of melody. His lyrics are universally known; and we, therefore, close our selection with two songs from a charming volume, *English Songs, and other small Poems,' by Barry Cornwall.']

The sea ! the sea ! the

sea !
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions' round;
It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies ;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea !
I am where I would ever be;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.
I love (oh! how I love) to ride
On the fierce foaming bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the south-west blasts do blow.


I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born ;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcomed to life the ocean child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sighed for change ;
And Death, whenever he come to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!


The king he reigns on a throne of gold,

Fenced round by his 'right divine;'
The baron he sits in his castle old,

Drinking his ripe red wine ;
But below, below, in his ragged coat,
The begyar he tuneth a hungry note,
And the spinner is bound to his weary thread,
And the debtor lies down with an aching head.

So the world goes!
So the stream flows !
Yet there is a fellow, whom nobody knows,
Who maketh all free
On land and sea,
And forceth the rich like the poor to flee !

The lady lies down in her warm white lawn,

And dreams of the pearled pride;
The milk-maid sings, to the wild-eyed dawn,

Sad songs on the cold hill-side :
And the bishop smiles, as on high he sits,
On the scholar who writes and starves by fits ;
And the girl who her nightly needle plies
Looks out for the summer of life,-and dies !

So the world goes!
So the stream flows!
Yet there is a fellow, whom nobody knows,
Who maketh all free
On land and sea,
And forceth the rich like the poor to flee !


MRS. HUTCHINSON. (The Life of Colonel Hutchinson,' one of the Parliamentary leaders in the time of Charles I., written by his widow Lucy, is one of the most delightful of our English Memoirs. In those days of strife and domestic anxiety, it is touching to know what solace there was for the good men of either party, in the deep affection for their husbands of such wives as Mrs. Hutchinson and Lady Fanshawe. The following extract is an address entitled, “Mrs. Hutchinson to her Children, concerning their Father.']

To number his virtues is to give the epitome of his life, which was nothing else but a progress from one degree of virtue to another, till in a short time he arrived to that height, which many longer lives could never reach ; and had I but the power of rightly disposing and relating them, his single example would be more instructive than all the rules of the best moralists, for liis practice was of a more divine extraction, drawn from the word of God, and wrought up by the assistance of his Spirit; therefore, in the head of all his virtues, I shall set that which was the head and spring of them all, his Christianity-for this alone is the true royal blood that runs through the whole body of virtue, and every VOL. IV.


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