The Lass of Preston-mill.

THE lark had left the evening cloud,
The dew fell soft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tops of down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,

The stars were blinking o'er the hill,
When I met among the hawthorns green
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

Her naked feet amang the grass
Shone like two dewy lilies fair;

Her brow beam'd white aneath her locks
Black curling o'er her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth,
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seem'd looking through her e'en,
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

me,

Quoth I, "Fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry?

Six hills are woolly wi' my sheep,

Six vales are lowing wi' my kye.

I have look'd long for a weel-faur'd lass,
By Nithsdale's holms, and many a hill"-
She hung her head like a dew-bent rose,

The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

P

said, "Sweet maiden, look not down, But gie's a kiss, and come with me;" A lovelier face O ne'er look'd up,—

The tears were dropping from her e'e. "I hae a lad who's far awa,

That well could win a woman's will; My heart's already full of love,"

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill

"Now who is he could leave sic a lass,
And seek for love in a far countree ?"
Her tears dropp'd down like simmer dews;
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.
I took a kiss o' her comely cheek—
"For pity's sake, kind sir, be still;
My heart is full of other love,"

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watery e'e

"Sae lang 's my heart kens aught o' God, Or light is gladsome to my e'e;

While woods grow green, and burns run clear,
Til my last drop of blood be still,

My heart shall haud nae other love,"
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By Ae and Clouden's hermit streams
Dwells many a gentle dame, I trow.

O! they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale and hill,

But there's ae light puts them all out,—
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

CUNNINGHAM.

The Frost.

THE Frost look'd forth, one still clear night,
And whisper'd, "Now I shall be out of sight;
So through the valley and over the height,
In silence I'll take my way:

I will not go on like that blustering train,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain,
But I'll be as busy as they."

Then he flew to the mountain, and powder'd its crest;

He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dress'd
In diamond-beads—and over the breast

Of the quivering lake he spread

A coat of mail, that it need not fear
The downward point of many a spear
That he hung on its margin, far and near,
Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept,
And over each pane like a fairy crept ;
Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept,

By the light of the moon were seen

Most beautiful things:- there were flowers and

trees;

There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees ; There were cities with temples and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair;
He peep'd in the cupboard, and finding there
That all had forgotten for him to prepare-

"Now, just to set them a thinking,
I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he,
"This costly pitcher I'll burst in three,
And the glass of water they've left for me
Shalltchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

MISS GOULD.

Daily Work.

WHO lags from dread of daily work,
And his appointed task would shirk,
Commits a folly and a crime;
A soulless slave-

A paltry knave

A clog upon the wheels of time.
With work to do, and store of health,

The man's unworthy to be free,

Who will not give,

That he may live,

His daily toil for daily fee.

No! let us work! We only ask
Reward proportion'd to our task;
We have no quarrel with the great
No feud with rank-

With mill or bank

No envy of a lord's estate,
If we can earn sufficient store

To satisfy our daily need,
And can retain

For age and pain,

A fraction; we are rich indeed.

No dread of toil have we or ours,

We know our worth, and weigh our powers: The more we work the more we win ;

Success to trade!

Success to spade!

And to the corn that's coming in!

And joy to him who o'er his task
Remembers toil is nature's plan;
Who, working, thinks,

And never sinks

His independence as a MAN!

Who only asks for humblest wealth,
Enough for competence and health;
And leisure when his work is done
To read his book,

By chimney nook,

Or stroll at setting of the sun; Who toils as every man should toil,