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99 iscellaneous Songs.
LAMENT FOR ABERCROMBIE.
TUNE_" Humours of Glen.” WHEN Nature with wild-flowers bespangled the moun
tains, And meadows display'd a' their charms to the bee; When pure gush'd the rills by their grass-border'd foun
tains, And saft sough'd the wind through the bloom-laden
tree; Beneath yon auld aik, on the green banks o' Clouden,
Whare aft in the gloamin' I wander'd to rave, Auld Malcolm was seen, o'er his scars fondly broodin',
Lamenting a warrior laid cauld in his grave. He stood by the stream, on a strong claymore leaning,
Like ane whase sad bosom osorrow is fou; He strade o'er the gowans fu’ mournfully maening, And straight frae its scabbard his braid sword he drew: “ Farewell, dear renown,” cried the auld lyart veteran;
“ For Malcolm nae mair will be seen on the field Wi' death warsling dourly, his faes bravely scatterin';
The sword o' a sodger his arm downa wield. But here though he wanders wi'eild heavy laden,
And joyless gaes hirplin' down life's briary brae, He ance strade to glory, through bluid bravely wadin',
Whar great Abercrombie, his chief, led the way. Illustrious leader! now stalking wi' heroes,
Wha bled for our country, our king, and our laws, When freedom unfurls her banner, be near us,
And rouse Scottish valour to stand in her cause.
By thee, led to victory, the sodger undaunted,
In wild transport fir'd at the loud shouts o' war, O'er heaps rush'd to glory, the breach boldly mounted,
Though death arm’d wi' terror his courage to scaur. Auld Scotia may lang on the heath wander cheerless,
And mourn as she şits by the sad sounding wave, The prime o' her warriors, intrepid, and fearless,..
The brave Abercrombie lies cauld in the grave !"
OH! WHAT IS THE GAIN OF RESTLESS CARE.
Oh! what is the gain of restless care,
And what is ambition's treasure,
In their haunts of sickly pleasure.
And to lie in the sun by the fountain,
And to rove o'er the heath and the mountain.
Oh! where is the morning seen to rise,
The violet mark'd as 'tis springing; The zephyr heard as at eve it sighs,
The blackbird lov'd for its singing ? Oh! there can alone the heart be gay,
The thought be free from sorrow, And soft the night and short the day,
And welcome again the morrow.
GO WHERE WAR.
AN ANSWER TO MY LOVE IS BREATHING A PRAYER FOR ME.
Go where war and thy country calls thee,
Guardian angels thy course attend;
Till the troubles of nations end.
When the rude tempest ruffles the sea,
Then I'll be breathing a prayer for thee. Take this jewel from off my finger;
See 'tis bath'd with a tender tear; 'Twill thy fancy induce to linger On the maid whom
call so dear.
* This song is by Mr. William Smyth of Cambridge, a specimen of whose admirable lyrics we have already given from Mr. Thomson's Irish Melodies. In the most trivial of his pieces there is a copious richness of those bold and beautiful strokes, which are characteristic of strong natural genius, and which he
where softened by the most exalted purity of senti