aften I hae been,
An' wi' a crony frank an' leal, some happy hours I 've seen;
But the happiest hours I ere enjoy'd, were shared, my love, wi' thee,
In the gloaming 'neath the bonnie, bonnie hawthorn tree.

Sweetly sang the blackbird, low in the woody glen,
And fragrance sweet spread on the gale, light o'er the dewy plain;
But thy saft voice an' sighing breath were sweeter far to me,
While whispering o' love beneath the hawthorn tree.

Old Time may wave his dusky wing, an' Chance may cast his die,
And the rainbow hues of flatterin' Hope may darken in the sky;
Gay Summer pass, an' Winter stalk stern o'er the frozen lea,
Nor leaf, nor milky blossom deck the hawthorn tree:

But still'd maun be the pulse that wakes this glowing heart o' mine,
For me nae mair the spring maun bud, nor summer blossoms shine,
An' low maun be my hame, sweet maid, ere I be false to thee,
Or forget the vows I breathed beneath the hawthorn tree.

THOMAS WATSON.

Thomas Watson, author of "The Rhymer's Family," a small volume of poems,
published in 1847, was born at Arbroath about the year 1807. He some
time wrought as a weaver, but has latterly adopted the trade of a
house-painter. He continues to reside in his native place.

THE SQUIRE O' LOW DEGREE.

My luve 's a flower in garden fair,
Her beauty charms the sicht o' men;
And I 'm a weed upon the wolde,
For nane reck how I fare or fen'.
She blooms in beild o' castle wa',
I bide the blast o' povertie;
My covert looks are treasures stown--
Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve is like the dawn o' day,
She wears a veil o' woven mist;
And hoary cranreuch deftly flower'd,
Lies paling on her maiden breast;
Her kirtle at her jimpy waist,
Has studs o' gowd to clasp it wi'
She decks her hair wi' pearlis rare--
And how culd my luve think o' me?

My cloak is o' the Friesland gray,
My doublet o' the gay Walloon,
I wear the spurs o' siller sheen,
And yet I am a landless loon;
I ride a steed o' Flanders breed,
I beare a sword upon my theigh,
And that is a' my graith and gear--
Sae how culd my luve think o' me?

My luve's rose lips breathe sweet perfume,
Twa pearlie raws pure faire atween,
The happie dimples dent her cheeks,
And diamonds low in her dark e'en;
Her haire