What it may be when summer deeds Muir shaw and brae, wi' bonnie weeds Sprinkling the gowan on the meads And broomy knowes, I dinna ken; but now the meads Scarce keep the cows. For trees, puir Scotia's sadly scanted, A few bit pines and larches planted, And thae, wee, knurlie, blastic, stuntit As e'er thou sawest; Row but a sma' turf fence anent it, Hech! there's a forest. For streams, ye'll find a puny puddle That would na float a shull bairn's coble, A cripple stool might near hand hobble Dry-baughted ever; Some whinstone crags to mak' it bubble, And there's a river. And then their cauld and reekie skies, They luke ower dull to Yankee eyes; The sun ye'd ken na if he's rise Amaist the day; Just a noon blink that hardly dries The dewy brae. Yet leeze auld Scotland on her women, Ilk sonzie lass and noble yeoman, For luver's heart or blade of foeman O'er baith victorious; E'en common sense, that plant uncommon, Grows bright and glorious. Fecks but my pen has skelp'd alang, I've whistled out an unco sang 'Bout folk I ha' na been amang Twa days as yet; But, faith, the farther that I gang The mair ye'll get. Sae sharpen up your lugs, for soon I'll tread the hazelly braes o' Doon, See Mungo's well, and set my shoon Where i' the dark Bauld Tammie keek'd, the drunken loon, At cutty sark. And I shall tread the hallowed bourne Where Wallace blew his bugle-horn O'er Edward's banner, stained and torn. What Yankee bluid But feels its free pulse leap and burn Where Wallace stood! But pouk my pen! I find I'm droppin My braw Scots style to English loppin; I fear amaist that ye'll be hoppin I'd quit it quite: If so, I e'en must think o' stopping, And sae, gude night. WEEHAWKEN. BY R. C. SANDS. Eve o'er our path is stealing fast; Yon quivering splendours are the last The sun will fling, to tremble o'er The waves that kiss the opposing shore; His latest glories fringe the height Behind us, with their golden light. The mountain's mirror'd outline fades Amid the fast extending shades; Its shaggy bulk, in sterner pride, Towers, as the gloom steals o'er the tide; For the great stream a bulwark meet That laves its rock-encumbered feet. River and Mountain! though to song Not yet, perchance, your names belong; Those who have loved your evening hues Will ask not the recording Muse, What antique tales she can relate, Your banks and steeps to consecrate.