, but the
publication, in the course of a few months, was abandoned. A similar
periodical, under the designation of _The Gaberlunzie_, appeared under
his management in 1827, and extended to sixteen numbers. He latterly
contributed articles in prose and verse to the _Ayr Advertiser_, a
weekly newspaper published in that town. His death took place at Ayr on
the 6th January 1843, in his 58th year. Much esteemed for his hearty,
social nature, with a ready and pungent wit, and much dramatic power as
a relater of legendary narrative, he was possessed of strong
intellectual capacities, and considerable taste as a poet. His second
son, Mr William Crawford, has attained distinction as an artist.

BONNIE MARY HAY.

Bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet,
For thy eye is the slae, thy hair is the jet;
The snaw is thy skin, and the rose is thy cheek;
O! bonnie Mary Hay, I will lo'e thee yet.

Bonnie Mary Hay, will you gang wi' me,
When the sun 's in the west, to the hawthorn-tree;
To the hawthorn-tree, in the bonnie berry-den,
And I 'll tell you, Mary, how I lo'e you then?

Bonnie Mary Hay, it 's haliday to me,
When thou art couthie, kind, and free;
There 's nae clouds in the lift, nor storms in the sky,
My bonnie Mary Hay, when thou art nigh.

Bonnie Mary Hay, thou maunna say me nay,
But come to the bower, by the hawthorn brae;
But come to the bower, and I 'll tell you a' what 's true,
How, Mary, I can ne'er lo'e ane but you.

SCOTLAND, I HAVE NO HOME BUT THEE!

Scotland, thy mountains, thy valleys, and fountains,
Are famous in story--the birth-place of song;
Thy daughters the fairest, the sweetest, the rarest,
Well may thy pilgrims long for their home.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but thee!

Glow on, ye southern skies, where fruits wear richer dyes
To pamper the bigot, assassin, and slave;
Scotland, to thee I 'll twine, with all thy varied clime,
For the fruits that thou bearest are true hearts and brave.
Trace the whole world o'er, find me a fairer shore,
The grave of my fathers! the land of the free!
Joy to the rising race! Heaven send them ev'ry grace;
Scotland, dear Scotland, I have no home but