Has left me to the marrow chaf'd.
So winsome is thy smiling,
Thy love-craft so beguiling,
It binds me like the wilding,
And I yield, in dule and sorrow left.

Thy brown locks rank'd in order,
So spiral, rich, and clustering!
Thy face, of flowers a border,
'Neath feather'd eyebrows mustering!
Two drops of dewy splendour
Those lids of beauty under!
And that kiss--a fragrant wonder,
As fruits of India Western!

JOHN MUNRO.

John Munro was born in 1791, in the parish of Criech, Sutherlandshire.
His father was superintendent of a manufacturing establishment. On the
premature death of her husband, his mother proceeded to Glasgow, where
the family were enabled to obtain a suitable education. In 1827, the
poet commenced business as an accountant. The hours of relaxation from
business he sedulously devoted to the concerns of literature, especially
poetry. He produced some religious tracts, and composed verses, chiefly
of a devotional character. He died in 1837, and his remains were
consigned to the Necropolis of the city. Admiring friends reared an
appropriate monument over his grave.

THE HIGHLAND WELCOME.

"My dearest, wilt thou follow,
And mount with me the billow?
Wilt thou with me pass o'er the sea
To the land of hill and hollow?"

"No, Highlandman! I leave not
My kindred for another,
Nor go with thee across the sea
From the children of my mother.

"No, Highlandman! I will not fly
My own beloved border;
For poortith dwells and famine pales
In your Highlands of disorder.

"I will not wed a Gael--
His house is but a shieling;
Oh, best unborn, than all forlorn
Mid your crags to have my dwelling!"

"The house I call mine own house,
A better was not born in;
And land and sea will smile on thee,
In the Highlands of thy scorning.

"I do not boast the wheaten wealth
Of our glens and hills, my dearie!
But enow is health, and grass is wealth,
In the land of mead and dairy.

"I 've store of kine, my darling,
Nor any lilting sweeter
Thine ear can know, than is their low,
And the music of the bleater.

"I have no ship on ocean
With merchant treasure sailing;
But my tight boat, and trusty net,
Whole loads of fish are trailing.

"And, for dress, is none, my beauty,