THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE.

THOU hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie,

By that pretty white han' o' thine,
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven,
That thou wad aye be mine!

And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie,
And by that kind heart o' thine,
By a' the stars sown thick owre heaven,
That thou shalt aye be mine!

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic bands,
And the heart that wad part sic luve!
But there's nae hand can loose my band,
But the finger o' Him abuve.

Though the wee, wee cot maun be my bield,
And my claithing ne'er sae mean,

I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve,

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me,

Fu' safter than the down;

And Luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind wings, And sweetly I'd sleep, and soun'.

Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve!

Come here and kneel wi' me!

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.

The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God,

And I canna pray without thee.

The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' new flowers, The wee birds sing kindlie and hie;

Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dyke,

And a blythe auld bodie is he.

The Beuk maun be ta'en whan the carle comes hame, Wi' the holie psalmodie;

And thou maun speak o' me to thy God,

And I will speak o' thee.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.

WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever,

From his true maiden's breast

Parted forever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;

There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;

WHERE SHALL THE LOVER REST.

There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted forever,

Never again to wake,

Never, O never!

Where shall the traitor rest,

He the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast.

Ruin and leave her?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted.

Shame and dishonor sit

By his grave ever! Blessing shall hallow it

Never, O never!

Sin WALTER SCOTT.

A MUSICAL BOX.

I KNOW her, the thing of laces, and silk,

And ribbons, and gauzes, and crinoline, With her neck and shoulders as white as milk, And her doll-like face and conscious mien.

A lay-figure fashioned to fit a dress,

All stuffed within with straw and bran;

Is that a woman to love, to caress?

Is that a creature to charm a man?

Only listen! how charmingly she talks

Of your dress and hers of the Paris mode —

Of the coming ball of the opera box

Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad.

A MUSICAL BOX.

Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well,
And Fashion she worships with down-cast eyes;
A marchande de modes is her oracle,

And Paris her earthly paradise.

She's perfect to whirl with in a waltz;

And her shoulders show well on a soft divan, As she lounges at night and spreads her silks, And plays with her bracelets and flirts her fan, With a little laugh at whatever you say,

And rounding her "No" with a look of surprise, And lisping her "Yes" with an air distrait, And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes.

Her duty this Christian never omits!

She makes her calls, and she leaves her cards, And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits,

And slim attachés and six-foot Guards.

Her talk is of people, who're nasty or nice,
And she likes little bon-bon compliments;
While she seasons their sweetness by way of spice,
By some witless scandal she often invents.

Is this the thing for a mother or wife?
Could love ever grow on such barren rocks?

Is this a companion to take for a wife?
One might as well marry a musical box.

You exhaust in a day her full extent,
'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always,
You must wind her up with a compliment.
To be bored with the only airs she plays.

W. W. STORY.