And I will pu' a garland gay,
To deck thy brow sae fair;
For many a woodbine cover'd glade
An' sweet wild flower is there.

There 's music in the wild cascade,
There 's love amang the trees,
There 's beauty in ilk bank and brae,
An' balm upon the breeze;
There 's a' of nature and of art,
That maistly weel could be;
An' oh, my love, when thou art there,
There 's bliss in store for me.

OH! DINNA CROSS THE BURN, WILLIE.

Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie,
Dinna cross the burn,
For big 's the spate, and loud it roars;
Oh, dinna cross the burn.
Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht,
And sair they wad you blame;
Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht--
Indeed, you 're no gaun hame.
The thunder-storm howls in the glen,
The burn is rising fast;
Bide only twa-three hours, and then
The storm 'll a' be past.
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht,
Oh, bide till mornin' here;
My faither, he 'll see a' things richt,
And ye 'll hae nocht to fear.
See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there,
The rains in torrents pour;
And see the lightning's dreadful glare,
Hear how the thunders roar!
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Away he rode, no kind words could
His mad resolve o'erturn;
He plunged into the foaming flood,
But never cross'd the burn!
And now though ten long years have pass'd
Since that wild storm blew by--
Oh! still the maniac hears the blast,
And still her crazy cry,
Oh, dinna cross, &c.

ALEXANDER TAIT.

Alexander Tait is a native of Peebles. Abandoning in 1829 the occupation
of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He
has taught successively in the parishes of Lasswade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat,
Pennycuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose
and verse, he has been an extensive contributor.

E'ENING'S DEWY HOUR.

AIR--_'Roslin Castle.'_

When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene,
And gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green;
When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower,
How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!

When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade,
The robin chants his ve