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, 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, 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 lovely form, her native ease, 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, "Stern ruin's ploughshare, 'mang the stowre, "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," And few like thee, Oh! BURNS, have swept the minstrel's lyre With ecstacy. E'er winter's icy vapours fail, That shepherd boys, Led by the fragrance they inhale, Soon find their prize. So when to life's chill glens confin'd, Such sonsy lays, |