(IN IMITATION OF THE SCOTCH)
Written in her thirteenth year

Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe and sae swift,
His bonnet is far frae his flaxen hair lift,
His dark een rolls gladsome, i' the breeze floats his plaid,
And surely he bringeth nae news that is sad.
Ah! say, bonny stranger, whence caemest thou now?
The tiny drop trickles frae off thy dark brow.

'I come,' said the stranger, 'to spier my lued hame,
And to see if my Marion still were the same;
I hae been to the battle, where thousands hae bled,
And chieftains fu' proud are wi' mean peasants laid;
I hae fought for my country, for freedom, and fame,
And now I'm returning wi' speed to my hame.'

'Gude Spirit of Light!' ('t was a voice caught his ear)
'And is it me ain Norman's accents I hear?
And has the fierce Southron then left me my child!
Or am I wi' sair, sair anxiety wild?'
He turned to behold —'t is his mother he sees!
He flies to embrace her — he falls on his knees.

'Oh! where is my father?' a tear trickled down,
And silently moisten'd the warrior's cheek brown:
'Ah! sure my heart sinks, sae sair in my breast,
Too sure he frae all the world's trouble doth rest!'
'But where is my Marion?' his pale cheek turned red,
And the glistening tear in his eye was soon dried.

'She lives!' and he knew 't was his Marion's sweet tone,
'She lives,' exclaims Marion, 'for Norman alone!'
He saw her: the rose had fled far from her cheek,
But Norman still lives! his Marion is found;
By the adamant chains of blithe Hymen they're bound.