banish'd far frae hame,
When the curlers meet to play at the brave old Scottish game!

It makes the auld folk young, an' the crimson tide to flow,
It gars the pale face shine wi' a fresh and ruddy glow;
The rich forget their state and the charms o' wealth and power,
When the bosom swells wi' joy in the bright triumphant hour.
The wise may laugh an' sneer, and the unco guid may gloom
At the happy, happy man, wi' his curlin' stanes and broom;
The melody to charm is the sport we love to name,
Ah! there 's music in the stanes, at the rare old Scottish game!

The warm and glowin' clime will subdue the manly form;
The curler's happy hame is the land o' mist an' storm,
Where the dreary winter reigns wi' a wide extended sway,
An' the heathy moors are clad in a robe o' white array,
Till the gentle breath o' spring blaws the icy fields awa',
To woo the springin' flowers, and to melt the frozen snaw.
When the curlin' days are o'er, a' the joys o' life are tame--
There 's naething warms the heart like the noble Scottish game!

THE MERRY BOWLING-GREEN.

AIR--_"Castles in the Air."_

The gloomy days are gone
With the blasts o' winter keen;
The flowers are blooming fair,
And the trees are budding green;
The lark is in the sky,
With his music ringing loud,
Raining notes of joy
From the sunny Summer cloud--
Springing at the dawn
With the blushing light of day,
And quivering with delight
In the morning's golden ray;
But there 's rapture dearer far
In the warm and social power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the happy evening hour!

The lights and shades of life,
Like an April day, are seen,
'Mid the melting sunny showers,
On the lively bowling-green.
The Spring and Autumn meet
When the old and young are there,
And mirth and wisdom chase
From the heart the thoughts of care.
When the creaking wheels of life
Are revolving weak and slow,
And the dashing tide of hope
May be ebbing dark and low,
The sons of wealth and toil
Feel the sweet and soothing power
Of the merry bowling-green,
In the charming leisure hour!

The streams of life run on
Till they fall into the sea;
And the flowers are left behind,
With their fragrance on the lea.
The circling flight of time