Love will add gladness to the scene,
And strew my path with flowers;
And Joy with Innocence will lean
Amid my rosy bowers.
Then waft me to the fairy clime
Where Fancy loves to roam,
Where Hope is ever in her prime,
And Friendship has a home.

THE LOVE-SICK MAID.

The love-sick maid, the love-sick maid,
Ah! who will comfort bring to the love-sick maid?
Can the doctor cure her woe
When she will not let him know
Why the tears incessant flow
From the love-sick maid?

The flaunting day, the flaunting day,
She cannot bear the glare of the flaunting day!
For she sits and pines alone,
And will comfort take from none;
Nay, the very colour's gone
From the love-sick maid.

The secret 's out, the secret 's out,
A doctor has been found, and the secret 's out!
For she finds at e'ening's hour,
In a rosy woodland bower,
Charms worth a prince's dower
To a love-sick maid.

ALEXANDER JAMIESON.

Alexander Jamieson was born in the village of Dalmellington, Ayrshire,
on the 29th January 1789. After a course of study at the University of
Edinburgh, he obtained licence as a medical practitioner. In 1819, he
settled as a surgeon and apothecary in the town of Alloa. A skilful
mechanician, he constructed a small printing-press for his own use; he
was likewise ardently devoted to the study of botany. He composed verses
with remarkable facility, many of which he contributed to the _Stirling
Journal_ newspaper. His death was peculiarly melancholy: he had formed
one of a pic-nic party, on a fine summer day, to the summit of
Bencleugh, one of the Ochils, and descending by a shorter route to visit
a patient at Tillicoultry, he missed his footing, and was precipitated
about two hundred feet into one of the ravines. He was early next
morning discovered by a shepherd, but only survived a few hours
afterwards. His death took place on the 26th July 1826. Possessed of
varied talents, and excellent dispositions, Jamieson was deeply
regretted by his friends. He left a widow, who died lately in
Dunfermline. His songs, of which two specimens are adduced, afford
evidence of power.

THE MAID WHO WOVE.[11]

_"Russian Air."_

The maid who wove the rosy wreath
With every flower--hath wrought a spell,
And though her chaplets fragrance breathe
And balmy sweets--I kn