aking the day seem night!

Why is my spirit sad?
Alas! ye did not know the lost, the dead,
Who loved with me of yore green paths to tread--
The paths of young romance;
Ye never stood with us 'neath summer skies,
Nor saw the glad light of their tender eyes--
The Eden of their glance.

Why is my spirit sad?
Have not the beautiful been ta'en away--
Are not the noble-hearted turn'd to clay--
Wither'd in root and stem?
I see that others, in whose looks are lit
The radiant joys of youth, are round me yet,
But not--but not like them!

I would not be less sad;
My days of mirth are past; droops o'er my brow
The sheaf of care in sickly paleness now;
The present is around me;
Would that the future were both come and gone,
And that I lay where, 'neath a nameless stone,
Crush'd feelings could not wound me!

GEORDIE YOUNG.

I 'll no walk by the kirk, mother,
I 'll no walk by the manse;
I aye meet wi' the minister,
Wha looks at me askance.

What ails ye at the minister?--
A douce and sober lad;
I trow it is na every day
That siclike can be had.

I dinna like his smooth-kaim'd hair,
Nor yet his pawkie face;
I dinna like a preacher, mother,
But in a preaching place.

Then ye 'll gang down by Holylee--
Ye needna look sae scared--
For wha kens but at Holylee
Ye 'll aiblins meet the Laird?

I canna bide the Laird, mother,
He says sic things to me;
Ae half he says wi' wily words,
And ae half wi' his e'e.

Awa! awa! ye glaikit thing!
It 's a' that Geordie Young;
The Laird has no an e'e like him,
Nor the minister a tongue!

He 's fleech'd ye out o' a' ye hae,
For nane but him ye care;
But love can ne'er be lasting, bairn,
That aye gangs cauld and bare.

The faithfu' heart will aye, mother,
Put trust in ane above,
And how can folks gang bare, mother,
Wrapp'd in the faulds o' love?

Weel, lassie, walk ye by the burn,
And walk ye slow and sly;
My certie! weel ye ken the gate
That Geordie Young comes by!

His plighted troth is mine, mother,
And lang afore the spring
I 'll loose my silken snood, mother,
And wear the gowden ring.

MY FAIRY ELLEN.

Beautiful moon! wilt thou