And boune me till the Holy Land,
A' for the sake o' my dear luve,
To keep unstain'd my heart and hand.
And when this world is gane to wreck,
Wi' a' its pride and vanitie,
Within the blessed bouris o' heaven,
We then may meet--my luve and me.

JAMES MACDONALD.

A respectable writer of lyric poetry, James Macdonald was born in
September 1807, in the parish of Fintry, and county of Stirling. His
father was employed in the cotton factory of Culcruich. Of unwonted
juvenile precocity, he attracted the attention of two paternal uncles,
whose circumstances enabled them to provide him with a liberal
education. Acquiring the rudiments of learning at Culcruich, he
afterwards studied at the grammar school of Stirling, and proceeded, in
1822, to the university of Glasgow. Intended by his relations for the
ministry of the Established Church, he attended the Divinity Hall during
three sessions. Preferring secular employment, he now abandoned the
study of theology, and occupied himself in educational pursuits. After
teaching in several boarding establishments, he became corrector of the
press in the printing-office of Messrs Blackie of Glasgow. Having
suffered on account of bad health, he was induced to accept the
appointment of Free Church schoolmaster at Blairgowrie. His health
continuing to decline, he removed to the salubrious village of Catrine,
in Ayrshire: he died there on the 27th May 1848. Macdonald was a devoted
teacher of Sabbath schools; and his only separate publications are two
collections of hymns for their use.

BONNIE AGGIE LANG.

Or ere we part, my heart leaps hie to sing ae bonnie sang,
Aboot my ain sweet lady-love, my darling Aggie Lang;
It is na that her cheeks are like the blooming damask rose,
It is na that her brow is white as stainless Alpine snows,
It is na that her locks are black as ony raven's wing,
Nor is 't her e'e o' winning glee that mak's me fondly sing.

But, oh! her heart, a bonnie well, that gushes fresh an' free
O' maiden love, and happiness, and a' that sweet can be;
Though saft the sang o' simmer winds, the warbling o' the stream,
The carolling o' joyous birds, the murmur o' a dream,
I 'd rather hear a'e gentle word frae Aggie's angel tongue,
For weel I ken her heart is mine--the fountain whar it sprung.

Yestreen I met her in a glen about the gloamin' hour;
The moon was risen o'er