s "Book of Scottish Song," and other collections. His song
beginning "Oh, my love 's bonnie!" has been translated into German, and
published with music at Leipsic.

THE BARD STRIKES HIS HARP.

The bard strikes his harp, the wild woods among,
And echo repeats to the breezes his strain;
Enraptured, the small birds around his seat throng,
And the lambkins, delighted, stand mute on the plain.
He sings of the pleasures his young bosom knew,
When beauty inspired him, and love was the theme;
While his harp, ever faithful, awakes them anew,
And a tear dims his eye as he breathes the loved name.

The hearths that bade welcome, the tongues that gave praise,
Are now cold to his sorrows, and mute to his wail!
E'en the oak, his sole shelter, rude winter decays,
And the wild flowers he sung are laid scentless and pale.
Too oft thus in misery, the minstrel must pine;
Neglected by those whom his song wont to cheer,
They think not, alas! as they view his decline,
That his heart still can feel, and his eye shed a tear.

Yet sweet are the pleasures that spring from his woes,
And which souls that are songless can never enjoy;
They know not his joy, for each sweet strain that flows
Twines a wreath round his name time can never destroy.
Sing on, then, sweet bard! though thus lonely ye stray,
Yet ages unborn, thy name shall revere;
While the names that neglect thee have melted away,
As the snowflakes which fall in the stream disappear.

PH[OE]BUS, WI' GOWDEN CREST.

Ph[oe]bus, wi' gowden crest, leaves ocean's heaving breast
An' frae the purple east smiles on the day;
Laverocks wi' blythesome strain, mount frae the dewy plain,
Greenwood and rocky glen echo their lay;
Wild flowers, wi' op'ning blooms, woo ilka breeze that comes,
Scattering their rich perfumes over the lea;
But summer's varied dye, lark's song, and breezes' sigh,
Only bring sorrow and sadness to me.

Blighted, like autumn's leaf, ilk joy is changed to grief--
Day smiles around, but no pleasure can gie;
Night on his sable wings, sweet rest to nature brings--
Sleep to the weary, but waukin' to me.
Aften has warldly care wrung my sad bosom sair;
Hope's visions fled me, an' friendship's untrue;
But a' the ills o' fate never could thus create
Anguish like pa