arts may kythe, though they 're forced far away,
But its dool to the spirit when haffets are gray;
The saplin transplanted may flourish a tree,
Whar the hardy auld aik wad but wither and dee.

They tell me I gang whar the tropic suns shine
Owre landscapes as lovely and fragrant as thine;
For the objects sae dear that the heart had entwined
Turn eerisome hame-thoughts, and sicken the mind.

No, my spirit shall stray whar the red heather grows!
In the bonnie green glen whar the mountain stream rows,
'Neath the rock that re-echoes the torrent's wild din,
'Mang the graves o' my sires, round the hearths o' my kin.

THE FALCON'S FLIGHT.

AIR--_"There 's nae luck about the house."_

I sing of gentle woodcroft gay, for well I love to rove,
With the spaniel at my side and the falcon on my glove;
For the noble bird which graced my hand I feel my spirit swell,
Array'd in all her hunting-gear--hood, jessy, leash, and bell.

I have watch'd her through the moult, till her castings all were pure,
And have steep'd and clean'd each gorge ere 'twas fix'd upon the lure;
While now to field or forest glade I can my falcon bring
Without a pile of feather wrong, on body, breast, or wing.

When drawn the leash, and slipt the hood, her eye beams black and bright,
And from my hand the gallant bird is cast upon her flight;
Away she darts, on pinions free, above the mountains far,
Until in less'ning size she seems no bigger than a star.

Away, away, in farthest flight I feel no fear or dread,
When a whistle or a whoop brings her tow'ring o'er my head;
While poised on moveless wing, from her voice a murmur swells,
To speak her presence near, above the chiming from her bells.

'Tis Rover's bark--halloo! see the broad-wing'd heron rise,
And soaring round my falcon queen, above her quarry flies,
With outstretch'd neck the wary game shoots for the covert nigh;
But o'er him for a settled stoop my hawk is tow'ring high.

My falcon 's tow'ring o'er him with an eye of fire and pride,
Her pinions strong, with one short pull, are gather'd to her side,
When like a stone from off the sling, or bolt from out the bow,
In meteor flight, with sudden dart, she stoops upon her foe.

The vanquish'd and the vanquisher sink rolling round and round,
With wounded wing the quarried game falls heavy on the