WHISTLE-BINKIE.

A " Whistle-binkie" appears to be a gentleman who is indebted. for his place on the "bink" or bench to his faculty of singing or whistling. We shall thus make the Whistle-binkie pay for our notice of it, by an extract of a good song,—though not taken from the " chiefly original' portion. The Whistle:binkie in a small space contains a great variety of Scottish songs, but few of any distinguished excellence. Neither do we like the tone of many that are not deficient in spirit : they are too much in the drinking and ranting vein of former times, and are unsuited to the sobriety andcomparative purity of modern man- ners, when men in general are gaining higher views, and indulge in more elevated themes than wild and noisy praises of drunken- ness and other tavern joys. Such vain imaginations have been put to the rout by the stern necessities of real life on the one hand, and the progress of moral and literary education on the other. Love is, however, a theme that will never grow thread- bare either in verse or prose. The following is a love song by Mr. MOTHERWELL, of great tenderness of sentiment and some delicacy of expression. It seems to have been first published in Tait's Edinburgh-Magazine, though we did not observe it there.

JEANIE 3IORRISON.

I've wandered east, I've wandered west,: Through mony a weary way; But never, never, can forget The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weed be black gin Yule; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule.

0 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears : They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne.

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weed, 'Twas then we twa did part ; Sweet time—sad time ! twa bairns at schule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart !

'Twas then we sat on ae laugh bink, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones, and looks, and smiles were shed, Remembeed ever mair.

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think?

When baith bent doun over ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee.

0 mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame Whene'er the schule-weans, laughin', said, We cleck'd thegither hame? And mind ye o' the Saturdays, (The schule then skail't at noon),

When we ran aff to speed the braes—

The broomy braes o' June?

My head rins round and round about, My heart flows like a sea, As ane by ane the thochts rush back 0' schule time and o' thee.

Oh, mornin' life ! Oh, mornin' hive!

Oh, lichtsome days and fang, When hinnied hopes around our hearts, Like simmer blossoms, sprang !

O mind ye, luve, how aft we left The deavin' dinsome toun, To wander by the green burnside, And hear its water croon; The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, The flowers burst round our feet, And in the gloamin o' the wud The throssil whusslit sweet.

The throssil whusslit in the wud, The burn sung to the trees, And we with Nature's heart in tune Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' vera gladness grat! • Aye, aye, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trinkled doun your cheek, Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak ! That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gush'd all feelings forth, Unsyllabled—unsung !

I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, Gin I ha'e been to thee As closely twined wi' earliest thochts As ye hae been to me ? Oh ! tell me gin their music fills Thine ear as it does mine; Oh ! say gin e'er your heart grows grit Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, I've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper as it rine, The love o' life's young day.

O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sinder'd young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I die, Did I but ken your heart still dream'd 0' bygane days and me!