a
duodecimo volume of poetry, entitled, "The Sailor's Dream, and other
Poems," a work which was well received. His death took place at Greenock
on the 6th of July 1850, in his thirty-eighth year. Of modest and
retiring dispositions, Malone was unambitious of distinction as a poet.
His style is bold and animated, and some of his pieces evince
considerable power.

THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"Humours o' Glen."_

Though fair blooms the rose in gay Anglia's bowers,
And green be thy emblem, thou gem of the sea,
The greenest, the sweetest, the fairest of flowers,
Is the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

Far lovelier flowers glow, the woodlands adorning,
And breathing perfume over moorland and lea,
But there breathes not a bud on the freshness of morning
Like the thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

What scenes o' langsyne even thy name can awaken,
Thou badge of the fearless, the fair, and the free,
And the tenderest chords of the spirit are shaken;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for thee!

Still'd be my harp, and forgotten its numbers,
And cold as the grave my affections must be,
Ere thy name fail to waken my soul from her slumbers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

On the fields of their fame, while proud laurels she gathers,
Caledonia plants, wi' the tear in her e'e,
Thy soft downy seeds on the graves of our fathers;
The thistle--the thistle of Scotland, for me!

HAME IS AYE HAMELY.

AIR--_"Love's Young Dream."_

Oh! hame is aye hamely still, though poor at times it be,
An' ye winna find a place like hame in lands beyond the sea;
Though ye may wander east an' west, in quest o' wealth or fame,
There 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame,
Oh! there 's aye a pulse within the heart beats hame, hame, hame.

There 's gowd in gowpens got, they say, on India's sunny strand,
Then wha would bear to linger here in this bleak, barren land?
I 'll hie me ower the heaving wave, and win myself a name,
And in a palace or a grave forget my Hieland hame.

'Twas thus resolved the peasant boy, and left his native stream,
And Fortune crown'd his every wish, beyond his fondest dream;
His good sword won him wealth and power and long and loud acclaim,
But could not banish from his thoughts his dear-loved moun