SONG.

THE DE'IL CAM' FIDDLING, &c.

WRITTEN AND SUNG AT A GENERAL MEETING OF THE EXCISE OFFICERS IN SCOTLAND.

I.

THE de'il cam' fiddling thro' the town,
And danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman;
And ilk auld wife cry'd " Auld Mahoun!
"We wish you luck o' the prize, man!

CHORUS.

"We'll mak' our maut, and brew our drink, "We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man; "And mony thanks to the muckle black de'il, "That danc'd awa' wi' the Exciseman.

II.

"There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, "There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man, "But the ae best dance e'er cam' to our lan', "Was the de'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman !

CHORUS.

"We'll mak' our maut, &c."

SONG.

ON A BANK OF FLOWERS, &c.

I.

ON a bank of flowers, one summer's day,

For summer lightly dress'd

The youthful blooming Nelly lay,
With love and sleep oppress'd.

When Willy wander'd thro' the wood,

Who for her favour oft had su'd,

He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, And trembl'd where he stood!

II.

Her closed eyes, like

weapons

sheath'd,

Were seal'd in soft repose;

Her lips still as they fragrant breath'd.

It richer dy'd the rose.

The springing lilies sweetly pressed,

Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast;

He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, His bosom ill at rest!

III.

Her robes, light waving in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace,

Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace.
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,

A flutt'ring ardent kiss he stole ;

He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd,

And sigh'd his very soul!

IV.

As flies the partridge from the brake,

On fear inspired wings;

So Nelly startling half awake,

Away affrighted springs.

But Willy follow'd as he should,

He overtook her in the wood,

He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid

Forgiving all and good!

STANZAS

TO THE

MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS,

BY

EDWARD RUSHTON.

POOR, wildly sweet uncultur'd flow'r,
Thou lowliest of the Muse's bow'r,

"Stern ruin's ploughshare, 'mang the stowre,
"Has crush'd thy stem,"

"And sorrowing verse shall mark the hour,

"Thou bonnie gem."

'Neath the green turf, dear Nature's child, Sublime, pathetic, artless, wild,

Of all thy quips and cranks despoil'd,

Cold dost thou lie!

And many a youth and maiden mild

Shall o'er thee sigh!

Those pow'rs that eagle-wing'd could soar, That heart which ne'er was cold before,

That tongue which caus'd the table roar,

Are now laid low,

And Scotia's sons shall hear no more

Thy rapt'rous flow.

1

Warm'd with " a spark o' Nature's fire,"
From the rough plough thou didst aspire
To make a sordid world admire;

And few like thee,

Oh! BURNS, have swept the minstrel's lyre

With ecstacy.

E'er winter's icy vapours fail,
The violet in the uncultur'd dale,
So sweetly scents the passing gale,

That shepherd boys,

Led by the fragrance they inhale,

Soon find their prize.

So when to life's chill glens confin'd,
Thy rich, tho' rough untutor'd mind,
Pour'd on the sense of each rude hind

Such sonsy lays,