MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.

Farewell, ye dungeons, dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
Macpherson's time will not be long,

On yonder gallows-tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

O what is death but parting breath!
On many a bloody plain

I have dar'd his face, and in this place

I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword;
And there's no man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;

I die by treacherie:

It burns my heart I must depart

And not avenged be.

Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright,

And all beneath the sky

May coward shame destain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

Burns, if I may trust a mark in the Museum, communicated this wild and warlike song as an old lyric, with additions: it is, however, as much his own as a song may well be. It owes little, except the name and subject, to the death-chant of Macpherson, printed in Herd's Collection. This daring freebooter composed the song and tune while under sentence of death at Inverness; and when he came to the fatal tree he played the air on a favourite violin: holding up the instrument, he offered it to any of his name who would play the tune at his lyke-wake. No one answered-he dashed the fiddle to pieces on the hangman's head, and flung himself from the ladder. Tradition has some curious stories to tell of songs sung, and music composed, in circumstances very unfavourable for such compositions. The town piper of Falkirk, it is said, was sentenced to be hanged for horse-stealing: on the night before his execution he obtained as an indulgence the company of some of his brother pipers, and as the liquor was abundant, and their instruments in tune, the noise and fun grew fast and furious. The execution was to be at eight o'clock, and the poor piper was recalled to a sense of his situa

tion by morning light dawning on the window. He suddenly silenced his pipe, and exclaimed, "O but this wearyfu' hanging rings in my lug like a new tune!"

MEG O' THE MILL.

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller.

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl:-
She's left the guid fellow, and ta’en the churl.

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving :
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving ;-
A fine pacing horse, wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen'!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

"Meg o' the Mill" was a favourite theme with Burns: he augmented the humour and the glee of the old song,

and sent it to the Museum; while for Thomson's more classic collection he wrote the present version. The ancient song lives still in the tenacious memory of the peasantry, though little of it deserves to live.

Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
A braw new gown, and the tail o't is rotten,
And that's what Meg o' the Mill has gotten.

DONALD AND FLORA.

When merry hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.

Loose flow'd her yellow hair,
Quick heav'd her bosom bare,

And thus to the troubled air
She vented her sorrow:

Loud howls the northern blast,

Bleak is the dreary waste;

Haste then, O Donald, haste,

Haste to thy Flora!

Twice twelve long months are o’er,

Since on a foreign shore

You promis'd to fight no more,

But meet me in Mora.

Here, take this love-wrought plaid,

Donald, expiring, said;

Give it to yon dear maid,

Drooping in Mora: