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When Winter blaws in sleety show'rs,
Frae aff the Norlin hills sae hi',
He lightly kisss thy bonny bow'rs,
As laith to harm a flow'r in thee.

Thou bonny Wood, &c.

Tho' Fate should drag me south the Line,
Or owre the wide Atlantic sea,
The happy hours I'll ever min',
That I in youth hae spent in thee.
Thou bonny wood, &c

———0———

The Village Maid.

I would not change for cups of gold
This little cup that you behold
'Tis from the beech that gave a shade,
At noon-day, to my Village-Maid.

I would not change for Persian loom,
This humble matting of my room;
'Tis of those very, rushes twin'd,
Oft press'd by charming Rosalind.

I would not change my lovely wicket.
That opens in her fav'rite thicket,
For portals proud, or tow'rs that frown,
The monuments of old renown.

C