is his shield, as he wheels blazing by;
When once on his summit you 'd think you were soaring
'Mong bright beaming stars, they are rolling so nigh!
Then away to the hills where Loch Lomond is flowing,
Where mists and where mountains in solitude lie,
And where the braw red-lipp'd heather is growing,
And cataracts foam, as they came from the sky!

I 'M AWAY.

I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!
Afar o'er the mountains, afar o'er the stream,
To revel in joy 'mid the glad summer beam.
I leave care behind me, I throw to the wind
All sorrows allied to the earth-plodding mind;
The music of birds and the murmur of rills,
Shall be my companions o'er Scotia's loved hills.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

Oh, land of my fathers! Oh, home of my birth!
No spot seems so blest on the round rolling earth!
Thy wild woods so green, and thy mountains so high,
Seem homes of enchantment half hid in the sky!
Thy steep winding passes, where warriors have trod,
Which minstrels of yore often made their abode--
Where Ossian and Fingal rehearsed runic tales,
That echo'd aloft o'er the furze cover'd dales.
How lucent each lake, and how lovely each dell!
Who would not be happy, at home let him dwell;
I 'm away, I 'm away, like a thing that is wild,
With heart full of glee, as the heart of a child!

THERE IS A BONNIE, BLUSHING FLOWER.

There is a bonnie, blushing flower--
But ah! I darena breathe the name;
I fain would steal it frae its bower,
Though a' should think me sair to blame.
It smiles sae sweet amang the rest,
Like brightest star where ither's shine;
Fain would I place it in my breast,
And make this bonnie blossom mine.

At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er
I see this fair, this fav'rite flower,
My heart beats high with wish sincere,
To wile it frae its bonnie bower!
But oh! I fear to own its charms,
Or tear it frae its parent stem;
For should it wither in mine arms,
What would revive my bonnie gem?

Awa', ye coward thoughts, awa'--
That flower