Alas! my native town was changed;
I scarcely knew the place,
For only here and there I caught
The melancholy grace

Of some remember'd feature still

Unalter'd on its face!

Perchance 'twas fairer than before,

Yet not so dear to me;

Why had they stolen my childhood's haunts
When I was o'er the sea?

Why was there nought but stone and lime
Where green fields used to be?

The Calton-hill was all cut up,
The High-street all cut down ;
A church-yard was let out in shops,*
The old "Nor' Loch" was gone;
And many a country road was now
A street within the town!

Even Arthur's seat look'd different now,
For they had pruned the crags,
And all the fine irregular rocks,
That, like the horns on stags,
Once jutted out, had gone to fill
The civic money bags.

From every venerable place
Patrician pride had fled;

In courts where nobles used to dwell

Trade rear'd her noisy head;

And fashion to a newer bride

At the West End was wed.

Part of the Calton-hill burying-ground was removed in 1815, to nake way for Waterloo Bridge.

EDINBURGH REVISITED.

The grass grew green in George's square, The meadows were deserted;

The house where Walter Scott was born

Look'd old and broken-hearted;

The order of all things to me

Seem'd grievously inverted.

As for my friends, there scarce was one

A lonely man am I;

And often when I see the stream

Of busy life flow by,

All glittering in the smiles of hope,
A tear-drop dims my eye.

O could I ever be again

A curly-pated lad,

I would not leave my native land

For all Allahabad,

It is domestic love, not gold,

That makes the bosom glad.

MATRIMONY.

'Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery! still thou art

a bitter draught!"

STERNE.

To die, some wicked rascals tell us,

Is a mere joke-a bagatelle, Whether we're partial to a gallows Or choose to walk into a well;

But, from a paltry love of life,

Say the same rogues, not over civil,

To take unto yourself a wife,

Alias a spouse-O! that's the devil!

"Who" cry these wags, "would ever cumber His house with such a dull, insipid, Useless, heartless piece of lumber,

A mere machine, a moving biped?" And then they speak of Eve and Adam,

And Samson's wife, and Lot's sad dame, And poor Job's breeches-wearing madam, And hundreds more than I can name; Pandora with her poisonous box,

And Helen who to Asia ran, And her who had the art to hoax

Wise Socrates, unhappy man!

Yet, after all, I still maintain

That women, on the whole, increase Man's happiness; and can't refrain

From saying they're a useful piece Of household furniture, a kind Domestic animal, that knows

All the vagaries of your mind,

And makes your tea, and mends your clothes.

But marriage is, no doubt, a sea

With many a rock that one may split on,

With many a hidden shoal that we

Will soon or late be sure to get on.

Who ever saw a genuine tear

Drop from a widow'd husband's eye?

Who ever had the luck to hear,
At such a time a genuine sigh?
Look at the widower, when he goes
Accoutred in his best black clothes;
Is there no smile about his face,
No air of freedom in his pace,

No scorn about the glance he throws

In proud security on those

Whose looks inform you well enough

Their mates are "made of sterner stuff?"

This puts a story in my head

I somewhere either heard or read.

A messenger, in breathless haste,

With hair, erected on his head,

Into Cornaro's chamber press'd,
And rush'd up to the sleeper's bed.
The sleeper lay in sweet repose,
The wasted strength of life restoring,

Lull'd by the music of his nose,

Which mortals vulgarly call snoring. The stranger shook him pretty roughly, And tweak'd his nose, and pull'd his hair; At last Cornaro, rather gruffly,

Ask’d, “What the devil brought him there ?” The messenger, in great distress,

At length, in broken accents, said, "O! Sir, they've sent me here express To tell you that your wife is dead!" "Indeed!" the widow'd man replied, Turning upon his other side,

And drawing o'er his eyes his

Resolved on finishing his nap,

сар,

"Poor woman! when I wake, you'll see How great a blow this is to me!"