"I've wrong'd her sair," he said, "but ken't the truth o'er late; It's grief for that alone that hastens now my date; But a' is for the best, since death will shortly free A young and faithful heart that was ill matched wi' me. "I loo'd, and sought to win her for mony a lang day; I had her parents' favor, but still she said me nay; I knew na Jamie's luve; and oh! it's sair to tell-- To force her to be mine, I steal'd her cow mysel! "O what cared I for Crummie! I thought of naught but thee, I thought it was the cow stood 'twixt my luve and me. While she maintain'd ye a' was you not heard to say, That you would never marry wi' Auld Robin Gray? "But sickness in the house, and hunger at the door, My bairn gied me her hand, although her heart was sore. I saw her heart was sore--why did I take her hand? That was a sinfu' deed! to blast a bonnie land. "It was na very lang ere a' did come to light; For Jamie he came back, and Jenny's cheek grew white. My spouse's cheek grew white, but true she was to me; Jenny! I saw it a'--and oh, I'm glad to dee! "Is Jamie come?" he said, and Jamie by us stood-- "Ye loo each other weel--oh, let me do some good! I gie you a', young man--my houses, cattle, kine, And the dear wife hersel, that ne'er should hae been mine." We kiss'd his clay-cold hands--a smile came o'er his face; "He's pardon'd," Jamie said, "before the throne o' grace. Oh, Jenny! see that smile--forgi'en I'm sure is he, Wha could withstand temptation when hoping to win thee?" The days at first were dowie; but what was sad and sair, While tears were in my ee, I kent mysel nae mair; For, oh! my heart was light as ony bird that flew, And, wae as a' thing was, it had a kindly hue. But sweeter shines the sun than e'er he shone before, For now I'm Jamie's wife, and what need I say more? We hae a wee bit bairn--the auld folks by the fire-- And Jamie, oh! he loo's me up to my heart's desire. [Illustration] THE SUMMER TOURIST.--SCENERY OF THE FRANCONIA MOUNTAINS, N.H. BY WILLIAM M'LEOD. The approach of summer will turn the thoughts and steps of thousands toward those sections of our wide country whose picturesque beauty makes them ample amends for comparative sterility of soil and poverty of population. New Hampshire, with due allowance for the exaggerations of patriotism, may well be styled the Switzerland of America; and, although they are inferior in magnificent sublimity to the regal Alps, few tourists through the Northern States would leave the White Mountains unvisited.