uffing bubbles on the breeze;
Oh, meikle is the mirth of the weans on our stair,
To see the bubbles sail like balloons alang the air.
Some burst before they rise, others mount the gentle wind,
And leave the little band in their dizzy joy behind;
And such are human pomp and ambition at the last--
The wonder of an hour, like thae bubbles on the blast.

How breathless is the watch of that merry little throng,
To mark the shining globes as they float in pride along!
'Tis thus life's bubbles come, ever flashing from afar--
Now a revolution, and again a woeful war;
A hero or a bard, in their glory or their might;
A bonnie bird of song, or a nightingale of light;
Or yellow golden age, with its speculations vast--
All wonders of an hour, like the bubbles on the blast.

Shout on, ye little folk, for your sport is quite as sage
As that of older men, e'en the leaders of the age;
This world 's a sapple bowl, and our life a pipe of clay--
Its brightest dreams and hopes are but bubbles blown away.
We 've had our bubbles too; some were dear and tender things,
That left us sad and lone as they fled on rapid wings;
And others yet may rise from the future, like the past,
The wonder of an hour, as the bubbles on the blast.

A SERENADE.

The shadows of evening fall silent around,
The rose with a cor'net of dewdrops is crown'd;
While weary I wander in sorrow's eclipse,
With your love at my heart, your name on my lips;
Your name on my lips, like a melody rare--
Then come, for I 'm lonely in shady Kenmair.

The birds by the river sing plaintive and low,
They seem to be breathing a burden of woe;
They seem to be asking, why am I alone?
And why do you tarry, or where are you gone?
The flowers are sighing sweet breath on the air,
And stars watch thy coming to shady Kenmair.

The gush of the fountain, the roll of the tide,
Recall your sweet image again to my side--
Your low mellow voice, like the tones of a flute;
Your slight yielding form, and small fairy foot;
Your neck like the marble, dark flowing your hair,
And brow like the snowdrop of shady Kenmair.

Come love, to the bank where the violets blow,
Beside the calm waters that slumber below,
While the brier and beech, the hazel and broom,
Fling down from their branches a flood of perfume;
Oh!