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THE DE'IL CAM' FIDDLING, &c.
WRITTEN AND SUNG AT A GENERAL MEETING OF THE
EXCISE-OFFICERS IN SCOTLAND.
« 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 !
ON A BANK OF FLOWERS, &c.
For summer lightly dress'd
With love and sleep oppress'd.
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!
Were seal'd in soft repose;
It richer dy'd the rose.
Wild wanton kiss'd her rival breast;
His bosom ill at rest!
Her tender limbs embrace,
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 !
On fear inspired wings;
Away affrighted springs.
He overtook her in the wood,
Forgiving all and good!
MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS,
Poor, wildly sweet uncultur'd flow'r,
“ Has crush'd thy stem,” “ And sorrowing verse shall mark the hour,
- Thou bonnie gem.”
'Neath the green turf, dear Nature's child,
Cold dost thou lie !
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.
Warm'd with “ a spark o' Nature's fire,”
And few like thee, Oh ! Burns, have swept the minstrel's lyre
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,