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AUGUST, 1832.

THE DUTCH MAIDEN.

An, lovely maiden! why so long Unkindly hast thou spurned my love? When shall my true, my mournful song, So oft repeated, pity move?

Seest thou yon glorious Rhine that flows, Careering proudly, glittering bright! No wave that in the sunshine glows, Once pass'd, again shall cheer thy sight?

Ah so, believe me, life must fly, Ah, so believe me, beauty fade, Nor wealth, couldst thou rich hoards supply, Time's rapid footstep e'er has stay'd.

Thy bouyant life, thy beauty, then, Enjoy while they are surely thine; Wait not to call them back again, Or o'er neglected hours repine.

Now, all around, love's purple light, Its bless'd enchantment strives to throw; Oh! wouldst thou linger till the night Of death has shrouded all below?

Ir was by the dull light of a grey, misty morning, that Willie Armstrong, the hardy descendant of the famous freebooter Johnnie Armstrong, was seen buckling on his leathern belt, and making other preparations, which betokened that he was on the eve of a marauding expedition. His wife stood gazing on the countenance of the handsome and daring moss-trooper with tearful eyes and half reproachful looks; at length she exclaimed,

“A wilful man will hae his way, but I tell ye, Gilnockie, that nae good will come o ' this outbreak-will naething persuade you to let this raid alane? "

“Gie ower your fleeching, wife, “said Willie, as he thrust his pistols into his belt, “and dinna let us part with the tear in your eye; and trow ye me, ye will hae weel filled barns and byres by the time I come hame. "

“Willie, Willie, “replied his wife, laying her hand on his arm, “are ye sae sure that ye will ever come hame? I would rather want meal and milk than that any mischance should come ower ye. The borders hae long been quiet, and— ”

“ The mair the pity, “answered Willie, “ certie, woman, I think mair o ' the spree than the profit it may bring; I'm clean doited with daidling out and in about the auld tower-there's neither faith nor marrow in the men now-a-days. Think of the time of my forbears, Alice, when the Armstrongs were as plenty as blæberriesHech! they are dwindled away both in clan and land. "

“And whatfore will ye make what's little, less, Willie? “replied Alice. “The warden of the marches will show you sma ' favour if ye should fall into his hands; and I would like ill to see your neck filled with a Jeddart cravat. "

“Hout, Alice, I dinna gie the value of a bodle for the warden; and let the warst come to the warst, the Earl of Traquair winna see a hair of my head hurt-but it's time I were mounted, in place of maundering here; a band of the Elliots are to meet me in the Dowy Glen; nae fear but we'll keep a merry Christmas with good fat mart, and I'll bring ye some braws to busk ye, fine as ye hae a good right to be. "

“I care nae for braws, Gilnockie, and that ye ken. Let the Elliots rieve and herry as they will, but hae ye naething to do with them. "

“I canna gang back of my word, Alice, let what will come o ' it; but I maun away, it ill sits an Armstrong to be hindmost. "

“Kiss your bairn before you gang, “said Alice, as she lifted her young son from his cradle.

“That I will, and you too, “replied Willie; and after bestowing a hearty kiss on each, he hurried out of the tower, flung himself on his horse, and rode roundly away.

The day passed heavily, the night drew on, and still Armstrong did not appear. Her faithful servant, Wattie Winshaw, tried to persuade Alice to go to bed.

“Dinna speak to me about going to bed, when for any thing I ken to the contrary, I may be by this time a widow, and my bairn fatherless. "

“Trow me, mistress, “replied Wattie, “there's little fear o ' that, he's no the gear that will tyne, so just try and get a gliff o ' sleep. "

“I canna sleep, “answered Alice; “but tell me what kind of night is it. "

“It's dooms dark, “replied Wattie; “but see, the dog is cocking his lugs; I'll warrant he hears something-faith he's right, that's the tramp o ' my master's naig. "

Bless you for that word, “said Dame Armstrong, as she threw some fresh fuel on the fire, while Wattie ran out to welcome his master. In a few moments he returned with a sorrowful countenance-

“It's no Gilnockie, dame, but Bobbie Elliot, who wants a word o' you."