"Gae rin, and say to Walter thus:
What seek thae warriours here!

Or why the din of fiery war
Astounds the peaceful ear?"

Swift ran the page.

"Thus Kenneth says,

What seik thae warriours here?

Or why the din of fiery war

Astounds the peaceful ear?”

"Gae tell thy master, frae this arm
Mine answer will I gï'e;
Remind him of his tyrant deeds,

And bid him answer me.

Wha was't that slew my father dear?
That bar'd my castle wa'?

Wha was't that bade wild ruin bruid
Whar pipes did glad the ha' ?”

Nor half way had the message sped,
When their tough bows they drew :
But far attour the warriors heads
The shafts for anger flew.

"Sae ever shute Lord Kenneth's faes,"

The valiant William said;

Wi' this I war nae wi' the wind,"

And drew his glittering blade.

Below the arrows' arch they rush'd
Wi' mony a shout, sae fast:
Beneath the rainbow the big clouds
Sae drives the roaring blast.

Bald Walter sprang frae aff his steid,
And drave him o'er the lee;

"Curs'd be the name of that base cow'rd That could but think to flee."

Firmly he set his manly foot,

And firm his targe he bare;

Never may Walter greet his friends,

If Kenneth's see him mair.

Fair Margaret wi' her maidens sat
Within the painted wa';

She started at ilk breath of wind
That whistled through the ha'.

"Wha was't that gi'd yon cry below?-
Say, page, does ill betide ?"
Kenneth and William baith are slain;

Mak haste, mak haste and ride."

Her maidens scriech'd: but any speech,
Nor wail of wae, had she;

She bow'd her head, and sair she sigh'd,
And cald Death clos'd her e'e.

THIS IS NO MINE AIN HOUSE.

THE first half stanza is old, the rest is Ramsay's. The old words are—

O this is no mine ain house,
My ain house, my ain house;

This is no mine ain house,
I ken by the biggin o't.

There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks
Are my door-cheeks, are my door-cheeks;
There's bread and cheese are my door-cheeks;
And pan-cakes the riggin o't.

This is no my ain wean,

My ain wean, my ain wean;
This is no my ain ween,
I ken by the greetie o't.

I'll tak the curchie aff my head,
Aff my head, aff my head;
I'll tak the curchie aff my head,

And row't about the feetie o't.

The tune is an old Highland air, called Shuan truish willighan.

LADDIE, LIE NEAR ME.

THIS song is by Blacklock.

THE GARDENER WI' HIS PAIDLE.*

THIS air is the Gardeners' March. The title of the song only is old; the rest is mine.

When rosy May comes in wi' flowers,

To deck her gay, green-spreading bowers;
Then busy, busy are his hours,

The gard'ner wi' his paidle.

This is the original of the song that appears in Dr. Currie's

ed, vol. iv. p. 103; it is there called Dainty Davie,

The chrystal waters gently fa';

The

merry birds are lovers a';

The scented breezes round him blaw,
The gard'ner wi' his paidle.

When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare;
Then thro' the dews he maun repair,
The gard❜ner wi' his paidle.

When day expiring in the west,
The curtain draws of nature's rest;
He flies to her arms he lo'es best,
The gard❜ner wi' his paidle.

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

Tune-SEVENTH OF NOVEMBER.

I COMPOSED this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married couples in the world, Robert Riddel, Esq. of Glenriddel, and his lady.* At their fire-side I have enjoyed more plea

When the Editor visited Friar's Carse Hermitage (on the late Mr. Riddell's estate) so much celebrated by Burns, he was

greatly