The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,

A king and a father to place on his throne?
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none;
But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn;
My brave gallant friends! 'tis your ruin I mourn;
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot-bloody trial-
Alas! I can make you no sweeter return!

SONG OF DEATH.

Tune-"Oran an Doig."

["I have just finished the following song," says Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, "which to a lady, the descendant of Wallace, and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology."]

Scene-A field of battle. Time of the day, evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following song:

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the bright setting sun;

Farewell loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties

Our race of existence is run!

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe!
Go frighten the coward and slave;

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou to the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark!
He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands,
Our king and our country to save-

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
Oh! who would not die with the brave!

FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.

Tune-"Afton Water."

[The scenes on Afton Water are beautiful, and the poet felt them, as well as the generous kindness of his earliest patroness, Mrs. General Stewart, of Afton-lodge, when he wrote this sweet pastoral.]

FLOW gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen;
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear-
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton! thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow!
There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton! among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays!
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream-
Flow gently, sweet Afton! disturb not her dream!

THE SMILING SPRING.

Tune-"The Bonnie Bell."

["Bonnie Bell." was first printed in the Museum: who the heroine was the poet has neglected to tell us, and it is a pity.]

THE smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,

And surly Winter grimly flies;

Now crystal clear are the falling waters,

And bonnie blue are the sunny skies;

Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the morning,

The evening gilds the ocean's swell;
All creatures joy in the sun's returning,
And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.

The flowery Spring leads sunny Summer,
And yellow Autumn presses near,
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,
Till smiling Spring again appear.
Thus Seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old Time and Nature their changes tell,
But never ranging, still unchanging,
I adore my bonnie Bell.

THE CARLES OF DYSART.

Tune-" Hey ca' thro'."

[Communicated to the Museum by Burns in his own handwriting: part of it is his com position, and some believe the whole.]

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart,

And the lads o' Buckhaven,
And the kimmers o' Largo,
And the lasses o' Leven.

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',
For we hae mickle ado;
Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',

For we hae mickle ado.

We hae tales to tell,

And we hae sangs to sing;
We hae pennies to spend,

And we hae pints to bring.

We'll live a' our days,

And them that come behin',

Let them do the like,

And spend the gear they win.

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',

For we hae mickle ado,

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro',

For we hae mickle ado.

THE GALLANT WEAVER.

Tune-"The Weavers' March."

[Sent by the poet to the Museum. Neither tradition nor criticism has noticed it, but the song is popular among the looms, in the west of Scotland.]

WHERE Cart rins rowin to the sea,

By mony a flow'r and spreading tree,
There lives a lad, the lad for me,

He is a gallant weaver.

Oh, I had wooers aught or nine,
They gied me rings and ribbons fine;
And I was fear'd my heart would tine,
And I gied it to the weaver.

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band,
To gie the lad that has the land;
But to my heart I'll add my hand,
And gie it to the weaver.
While birds rejoice in leafy bowers;
While bees delight in op'ning flowers;

While corn grows green in simmer showers,
I'll love my gallant weaver.

THE BAIRNS GAT OUT.

Tune-"The deuks dang o'er my daddie.”

[Burns found some of the sentiments and a few of the words of this song in a strain, rather rough and homespun, of Scotland's elder day. He communicated it to the Museum.]

THE bairns gat out wi' an unco shout,
The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O!
The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feirie auld wife,
He was but a paidlin body, O!
He paidles out, an' he paidles in,

An' he paidles late an' early, O!

This seven lang years I hae lien by his side,
An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O!

O, haud your tongue, my feirie auld wife,
O, haud your tongue, now Nansie, O!
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye,

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O!

I've seen the day ye butter'd my

brose,

And cuddled me late and early, O!
But downa do's come o'er me now,
And, oh! I feel it sairly, O!

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.

Tune-"She's fair and fause."

[One of the happiest as well as the most sarcastic of the songs of the North: the air is almost as happy as the words.]

SHE'S fair and fause that causes my smart,

I lo'ed her meikle and lang;

She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
And I may e'en gae hang.

A coof cam in wi' routh o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,

Sae let the bonnie lass gang.