We revel in the pure delight
Of deeds achieved by them,
To crown their worth and valour bright
With glory's diadem.

JAMES MACLARDY.

The writer of several good songs, James Maclardy was born in Glasgow on
the 22d August 1824. His father, who afterwards removed to Paisley, was
a journeyman shoemaker in humble circumstances. With the scanty
rudiments of education, young Maclardy was early cast upon the world.
For a course of years he led a sort of rambling life, repeatedly
betaking himself to the occupation of a pedlar, and sometimes being
dependent for subsistence on his skill as a ballad singer. Adopting his
father's profession, he became more fortunate, and now took delight in
improving himself in learning, and especially in perusing the works of
the poets. After practising his craft in various localities, he has
latterly settled in Glasgow, where he holds a situation of respectable
emolument.

THE SUNNY DAYS ARE COME, MY LOVE.

The sunny days are come, my love,
The gowan 's on the lea,
And fragrant flow'rs wi' hiney'd lips,
Invite the early bee;
The scented winds are whisp'ring by,
The lav'rock 's on the wing,
The lintie on the dewy spray
Gars glen and woodland ring.

The sunny days are come, my love,
The primrose decks the brae,
The vi'let in its rainbow robe
Bends to the noontide ray;
The cuckoo in her trackless bower
Has waken'd from her dream;
The shadows o' the new-born leaves
Are waving in the stream.

The sunny days are come, my love,
The swallow skims the lake,
As o'er its glassy bosom clear
The insect cloudlets shake.
The heart of nature throbs with joy
At love and beauty's sway;
The meanest creeping thing of earth
Shares in her ecstasy.

Then come wi' me my bonny Bell,
And rove Gleniffer o'er,
And ye shall lend a brighter tint
To sunshine and to flower;
And ye shall tell the heart ye 've won
A blessing or a wae--
Awake a summer in my breast,
Or bid hope's flowers decay.

For spring may spread her mantle green,
O'er mountain, dell, and lea,
And summer burst in every hue
Wi' smiles and melody,
To me the sun were beamless, love,
And scentless ilka flower,
Gin ye were no this heart's bright sun,
Its music and its bower.

OH, MY LOVE WAS FAIR.