How cheerly sound the bells! my charmer, come,
Expand your heart, and know yourself at home.
Sit down, good John;"--"I will," the old man cried,
"And let me drink to you, Sir, and the bride;
My blessing on you: I am lame and old,
I can't make speeches, and I wo'nt be bold;
But from my soul I wish, and wish with pain,
_That brave good gentlemen would not disdain_
_The poor, because they're poor_: for, if they live
Midst crimes that parents _never can_ forgive,
If, like the forest beast they wander wild,
To rob a father, or to crush a child,
Nature _will_ speak, aye, just as Nature feels,
And wish--a Gilbert Meldrum at their heels."




SHOOTER'S HILL.
[Footnote: Sickness may be often an incentive to poetical composition;
I found it so; and I esteem the following lines only because they remind
me of past feelings which I would not willingly forget.]


Health! I seek thee;--dost thou love
The mountain top or quiet vale,
Or deign o'er humbler hills to rove
On showery June's dark south-west gale?
If so, I'll meet all blasts that blow,
With silent step, but not forlorn;