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An’ but in page of blude an’ shame,
Nae trace o’ thee’ll be seen!"
****
Bereft of friends, an’ hopes of peace,
With grief the laird was pain’d;
His sprite flew here, an’ then flew there,
But peace it ne’er obtain’d;
Till frae the Esk ane frichtsome fiend,
With joyful clamour flies;
An’ fondly graspt the Laird, as gin
He’d been its weddit prize!
An’ just’s they fled, a siller cloud
Drew round the guiltless boy,
That bore him frae this land of woe;
To shades of heav’nlie joy!
NANCY BEAN.—A SKETCH.
"In yon little cot by the Borrowstown hill,
Where flutters the merlin an’ wimples the rill,
Where sweet crystal waters peep out now and then
Amang the red heather, an’ rocks o’ the glen.
Out ower frae a’ neebours, an’ pleas’d wi’ her fa’,
By shade o’ the bourtree, an’ bloom o’ the haw
Sits smilin’ an’ spinnin’ frae momin’ to e’en,
