To wander by the green burnside,
And hear its waters croon?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,
The flowers burst round our feet,
And in the gloamin' o' the wood
The throssil whusslit sweet:

The throssil whusslit in the wood,
The burn sang to the trees,
And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies;

And on the knowe abune the burn
For hours thegither sat

In the silentness o' joy, till baith
Wi' very gladness grat.

Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Tears trickled down your cheek
Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane
Had ony power to speak!

That was a time, a blessed time,

When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung!

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

Gin I hae been to thee

As closely twined wi' earliest throchts

As ye hae been to me:
O, tell me gin their music fills

Thine ear as it does mine!

O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west,
I've borne a weary lot;

But in my wanderings, far or near,

Ye never were forgot:

The fount that first burst frae this heart

Still travels on its way;

And channels deeper, as it rins,

The luve o life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,
Since we were sinder'd young
I've never seen your face nor heard
The music o' your tongue;

But I could hug all wretchedness,

And happy could I dee,

Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!

SPANISH.

J. F. WALLER.

MAGDALENA, OR THE SPANISH DUEL.

NEAR the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago,

Dwelt a lady in a villa

Years and years ago;

And her hair was black as night,
And her eyes were starry bright;
Olives on her brow were blooming,
Roses red her lips perfuming,

And her step was light and airy
As the tripping of a fairy :

When she spoke, you thought, each minute,

'Twas the trilling of a linnet;

When she sang, you heard a gush

Of full-voiced sweetness like a thrush;

And she struck from the guitar

Ringing music, sweeter far

Than the morning breezes make

Through the lime trees when they shake,

Than the ocean murmuring o'er

Pebbles on the foamy shore.
Orphan'd both of sire and mother,
Dwelt she in that lonely villa;
Absent now her guardian brother
On a mission from Sevilla.
Skills it little now the telling

How I woo'd that maiden fair,
Track'd her to her lonely dwelling,
And obtain'd an entrance there.
Ah! that lady of the villa,

And I loved her so,

Near the city of Sevilla,

Years and years ago.

Ay de mi! Like echoes falling
Sweet and sad and low,

Voices come at night, recalling

Years and years ago.

'Twas an autumn eve; the splendour Of the day was gone,

And the twilight, soft and tender,
Stole so gently on

That the eye could scarce discover
How the shadows, spreading over,
Like a vale of silver gray,
Toned the golden clouds, sun-painted,
Till they paled, and paled, and fainted
From the face of heaven away:
And a dim light, rising slowly,

O'er the welkin spread,

Till the blue sky, calm and holy,
Gleam'd above our head;
And the thin Moon, newly nascent,
Shone in glory meek and sweet,

As Murillo paints her crescent

Underneath Madonna's feet.

And we sat outside the villa

Where the languid evening breeze

Shook out odours in a shower

From oranges and citron-trees,

Sang she from a romancero,

How a Moorish chieftain bold

Fought a Spanish caballero

By Sevilla's walls of old;

How they battled for a lady,

Fairest of the maids of Spain,

How the Christian's lance, so steady,

Pierced the Moslem through the brain.

Then she ceased: her black eyes, moving,

66

Flash'd, as ask'd she with a smile,

Say, are maids as fair and loving,

Men as faithful, in your isle?"

"British maids,” I said, “are ever
Counted fairest of the fair;
Like the swans on yonder river
Moving with a stately air:

Woo'd not quickly, won not lightly,
But, when won, forever true;

Trial draws the bond more tightly,

Time can ne'er the knot undo."

"And the men

? "Ah! dearest lady,

Are-quien sabe? who can say?

To make love they're ever ready,

When they can and where they may;

Fix'd as waves, as breezes steady
In a changeful April day, -

Como brisas como rios,

No se sabe, sabe Dios."

"Are they faithful?”

"Ah! quien sabe?

Who can answer that they are?
While we may we should be happy."
Then I took up her guitar,

And I sang, in sportive strain,

This song to an old air of Spain:

QUIEN SABE.

"The breeze of the evening that cools the hot air,
That kisses the orange and shakes out thy hair,
Is its freshness less welcome, less sweet its perfume,
That you know not the region from which it is come?
Whence the wind blows, where the wind goes,
Hither and thither and whither who knows?

The river forever glides singing along,
The rose on the bank bends down to its song;
And the flower, as it listens, unconsciously dips,
Till the rising wave glistens and kisses its lips:
But why the wave rises and kisses the rose,
And why the rose stoops for those kisses

who knows? Who knows?

And away flows the river, - but whither - who knows?

Let me be the breeze, love, that wanders along,
The river that ever rejoices in song;

Be thou to my fancy the orange in bloom,

The rose by the river that gives its perfume.

Would the fruit be so golden, so fragrant the rose,

If no breeze and no wave were to kiss them?

Who knows?