But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow 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 !

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 through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e:
'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 countree!

[UNDER the assumed name of Barry Cornwall, Mr Procter wrote many short Poems, at once forcible and elegant. Whilst the Scotch, from the days of Allan Ramsay, had been carrying away most of the honours of song-writers Mr Procter made a vigorous effort to maintain our good old English reputa tion 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."]

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!

It is a hard and nice subject for a man to write of himself; it grates his own heart to say anything of disparagement, and the reader's ears to hear anything of praise for him. There is no danger from me of offending him in this kind: neither my mind, nor my body, nor my fortune, allow me any materials for that vanity. It is sufficient, for my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scandalous, or remarkable on the defective side. But, besides that, I shall here speak of myself only in relation to the subject of these precedent discourses, and shall be likelier thereby to fall into the contempt, than rise up to the estimation of most people. As far as my memory can return back into my past life, before I knew, or was capable of guessing, what

the world, or glories, or business of it were, the natural affections of my soul gave a secret bent of aversion from them, as some plants are said to turn away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to themselves, and inscrutable to man's understanding.

masters

when I was a very young boy at school, instead of running about on holidays, and playing with my fellows, I was wont to steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a book, or with some one companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I was then, too, so much an enemy to constraint, that my could never prevail on me, by any persuasions or encouragements, to learn, without book, the common rules of grammar, in which they dispensed with me alone, because they found I made a shift to do the usual exercise out of my own reading and observation. That I was then of the same mind as I am now, (which I confess I wonder at myself,) may appear at the latter end of an ode, which I made when I was but thirteen years old, and which was then printed, with many other verses. The beginning of it is boyish; but of this part which I here set down (if a very little were corrected) I should hardly now be much ashamed.

IX.

This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high;
Some honour I would have,

Not from great deeds, but good alone,
Th' unknown are better than ill known,

Rumour can ope the grave :

Acquaintance I would have ; but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice of friends.

X.

Books should, not business, entertain the light,
And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the night.
My house a cottage, more

Than palace, and should fitting be

For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield
Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

XI.

Thus would I double my life's fading space,
For he that runs it well twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

These unbought sports, that happy state,
I would not fear nor wish my fate,

But boldly say each night,

To-morrow let my sun his beams display,

Or in clouds hide them; I have lived to-day.

You may see by it I was even then acquainted with the poets, (for the conclusion is taken out of Horace :) and perhaps it was the immature and immoderate love of them, which stamped first, or rather engraved the characters in me. They were like letters cut in the bark of a young tree, which, with the tree, still grow proportionably. But how this love came to be produced in me so early, is a hard question: I believe I can tell the particular little chance that filled my head first with such chimes of verse, as have never since left ringing there: for I remember, when I began to read, and take some pleasure in it, there was wont to lie in my mother's parlour, (I know not by what accident, for she herself never in her life read any book but of devotion ;) but there was wont to lie Spenser's Works; this I happened to fall upon, and was infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, and monsters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there, (though my understanding had little to do with all this:) and by degrees, with the tinkling of the rhyme, and dance of the numbers, so that I think I had read him all over before I was twelve years old, and was thus made a poet. With these affections of my mind, and my heart wholly set upon letters, I went to the university; but was soon torn from thence by that public violent storm, which would suffer nothing to stand where it did, but rooted up every plant, even from the princely cedars, to me, the hyssop. Yet I had as good fortune as could have be