Calls for that artless early tear.

Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep;
For, long as I shall tarry here,
I'll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep,
Tho' flows for thee the tend'rest tear.

Then be thy gentle visions blest,
Nor e'er thy bosom know that fear,
Which thro' the night disturbs my rest,
And prompts Affection's trembling tear.




LINES

ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED

BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.


In days that long have glided by,
Beneath keen Scotia's weeping sky,
On many a hill of purple heath,
In many a gloomy glen beneath,
The wand'ring Lyrist once was known
To pour his harp's entrancing tone.
Then, when the castle's rocky form
Rose 'mid the dark surrounding storm,