Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons;
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.

Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving;

The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi' thriving.

A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds,
In Scottish yird to cover;
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,
And pack him to Hanover.

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!
And write their names in his black beuk,
Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't!

Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken :
Gude help the day, when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!

The deil he heard the stour o❜ tongues,
And ramping came anang us;

But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,-
He turn'd and wadna wrang us.

Sae grim he sat amang the reek,

Thrang bundling brimstone matches;
And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taking Whigs,
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches.

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Awa, Whigs, awa!

Ye'll rin me out o' wun spunks,

And ne'er do good at a'.*

This song is partly of ancient and partly of modern composition. "There is a tradition," says Mr Hogg, in the Notes to his Jacobite Relics, "that at the battle of Bothwell-bridge, the piper to Clavers's own troop of horse stood on the brink of the Clyde, playing the air of this song with

AT SETTING DAY.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

TUNE-The Bush abune Traquair.

AT setting day and rising morn,
With soul that still shall love thee,
I'll ask of heaven thy safe return,
With all that can improve thee.
I'll visit oft the birken bush,

Where first thou kindly told me
Sweet tales of love, and hid my blush,
Whilst round thou didst enfold me.

To all our haunts I will repair,

By greenwood, shaw, or fountain;
Or where the summer day I'd share
With thee upon yon mountain.
There will I tell the trees and flowers,
From thoughts unfeign'd and tender,
By vows you're mine, by love is yours
A heart which cannot wander.*

FAREWELL TO THE MASON-LODGE, AT TARBOLTON, IN AYRSHIRE.

BURNS.

TUNE-The Peacock.

ADIEU! a heart-warm fond adieu !
Dear brothers of the mystic tie!
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few,
Companions of my social joy!
Though I to foreign lands must hie,
Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba',

great glee; but, being struck by a bullet, either by chance, or in consequence of an aim taken, as is generally reported, he rolled down the bank in the agonies of death; and always, as he rolled over the bag, so intent was he on this old party tune, that, with determined firmness of fingering, he made the pipes to yell out two or three notes more of it, till at last he plunged into the river, and was carried peaceably down the stream, among a great number of floating Whigs."

*From the Gentle Shepherd.

With melting heart, and brimful eye,
I'll mind you still, though far awa’.

Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the cheerful festive night;
Oft, honour'd with supreme command,
Presided o'er the sons of light;
And by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw !
Strong memory on my heart shall write
Those happy scenes when far awa!

May freedom, harmony, and love,
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above,
The glorious architect divine!
That you may keep th' unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine-
Shall be my prayer when far awa.

And you, farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name,
To masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a',
One round, I ask it with a tear,
To him, the bard, that's far awa.*

THE RANTIN HIGHLANDMAN.

JOHN HAMILTON.

AE morn, last ouk, as I gaed out,

To flit a tether'd yowe and lamb,

* Written as a sort of farewell to the companions of his youth, when the poet was on the point of leaving Scotland for Jamaica, 1786.

I met, as skiffing ower the green,
A jolly rantin Highlandman.

His shape was neat, wi' feature sweet,
And ilka smile my favour wan;

I ne'er had seen sae braw a lad,

As this young rantin Highlandman.

He said, My dear, ye're sune asteer;
Cam ye to hear the laverock's sang
O, wad ye gang and wed wi' me,

And wed a rantin Highlandman?
In summer days, on flowery braes,
When frisky is the ewe and lamb,
I'se row ye in my tartan plaid,

And be your rantin Highlandman.

?

With heather bells, that sweetly smells,
I'll deck your hair sae fair and lang,
If ye'll consent to scour the bent
Wi' me, a rantin Highlandman.
We'll big a cot, and buy a stock,
Syne do the best that e'er we can ;
Then come, my dear, ye needna fear
To trust a rantin Highlandman.

His words sae sweet gaed to my heart,
And fain I wad hae gien my han',
Yet durstna, lest my mother should
Dislike a rantin Highlandman.
But I expect he will come back;

Then, though my kin should scauld and ban,

I'll ower the hill, or where he will,

Wi' my young rantin Highlandman.*

* John Hamilton, author of this and of several other songs of merit, was a music-seller in Edinburgh. He died in the year 1814.

C

AH! THE POOR SHEPHERD'S
MOURNFUL FATE.

HAMILTON OF BANGOUR.

TUNE-Galashiels.

Ан, the poor shepherd's mournful fate,
When doom'd to love and doom'd to languish,
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,
Nor dare disclose his anguish !
Yet eager looks and dying sighs

My secret soul discover,

While rapture, trembling through mine eyes,
Reveals how much I love her.

The tender glance, the reddening cheek,
O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak
A thousand various wishes.

For, oh that form so heavenly fair,
Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling,
That artless blush and modest air
So fatally beguiling;

Thy every look, and every grace,
So charm, whene'er I view thee,
Till death o'ertake me in the chase
Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Then, when my tedious hours are past,
Be this last blessing given,

Low at thy feet to breathe my last,

And die in sight of heaven.*

OWER THE MUIR TO MAGGY.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

AND I'll ower the muir to Maggy,
Her wit and sweetness call me;

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.