ew York.

Early imbued with the love of song, Mr Ainslie composed verses when a
youth on the mountains of Carrick. A visit to his native country in 1820
revived the ardour of his muse; and shortly before his departure to
America, he published the whole of his rhyming effusions in a duodecimo
volume, with the title, "Pilgrimage to the Land of Burns." A second
volume from his pen, entitled, "Scottish Songs, Ballads, and Poems," was
in 1855 published at New York.

THE HAMEWARD SANG.

Each whirl of the wheel,
Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth--
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,
And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glower in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.

E'en the brutes they look social,
As gif they would crack;
And the sang o' the birds
Seems to welcome me back.
Oh, dear to our hearts
Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land
And the cottage that bred us.

And dear are the comrades
With whom we once sported,
And dearer the maiden
Whose love we first courted.
Joy's image may perish,
E'en grief die away;
But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for aye.

DOWIE IN THE HINT O' HAIRST.

Its dowie in the hint o' hairst,
At the wa'-gang o' the swallow,
When the wind grows cauld, and the burns grow bauld,
And the wuds are hingin' yellow;
But oh, its dowier far to see
The wa-gang o' her the heart gangs wi',
The dead-set o' a shinin' e'e--
That darkens the weary warld on thee.

There was mickle love atween us twa--
Oh, twa could ne'er be fonder;
And the thing on yird was never made,
That could hae gart us sunder.
But the way of heaven's aboon a' ken,
And we maun bear what it likes to sen'--
It's comfort, though, to weary men,
That the warst o' this warld's waes maun en'.

There's mony things that come and gae,
Just kent, and just forgotten;
And the flowers that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten.
But the last look o' that lovely e'e,
And the dying grip she gae to me,
They're settled like eternitie--
Oh, Mary! that I were wi' thee.

ON WI' THE TARTAN.

Can you lo'e, my dear lassie,
The hills wild and free;
Whar' the sang o' the shepherd
Gars a' ring wi' glee?