re 's hinney in the haw--
There 's dew within the rose's breast,
The sweetest o' them a'.
The sun will rise an' set again,
An' lace wi' burning goud the main--
The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,
Sae lovely to the ken;
But lovelier far the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!

[58] This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland,
where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system
of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged
in. Mr Wilson and I had a "Queen's Wake" every wet day--a fair set-to
who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I
am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best
poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr
Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of
singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very
impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed
all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our
daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I
always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any
grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine
fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations,
they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to
myself, "Gude faith, it 's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went
over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn
what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had
heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.--_Hogg._

THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND.

AIR--_"The Blue Bells of Scotland."_

What are the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel--
The lovely flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?
The thistle's purple bonnet,
And bonny heather-bell,
O, they 're the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel!

Though England eyes her roses
With pride she 'll ne'er forego,
The rose has oft been trodden
By foot of haughty foe;
But the thistle in her bonnet blue,
Still nods outow'r the fell,
And dares the proudest foeman
To tread the heather-bell.

For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,
Alack and well-a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'
An' steal the