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Come a' ye pow'rs o' Music, come!
To say fareweel to whisky, 0.
On gude auld Highland whisky, O.
BLYTHE AN' HAPPY ARE WE.
TUNE—“ Andro and his cutty gun."
Cauld care is flegg'd awa ;
An' wha wou'd grudge tho' it were twa. The ev'ning shade around is spread,
The chilling tempest sweeps the sky;
While gettin' fou, we're great, I trow,
We scorn misfortune's greatest bangs;
The days o’man are but a span,
This mortal life a passing dream,
Then toom your glass to my sweet lass,
And neist we'll turn it o'er to thine:
May discord ne'er a feeling wound!
The biggest stoupfu' yet we've seen:
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling;
I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing,
But soon it is fled—it is fled far awae. I've seen the forest adorn’d of the foremost,
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay; Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air per
fuming, But now they are wither'd and a' wede awae. I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning,
And the red storm roaring before the parting day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sun
nie beams, Turn drumlie and dark as they rolld on their way. O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting ? Why thus perplex us, pour sons of a day?
Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me,
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae.
MY KIMMER AND L
For wedding-breeks an’ a wedding-gown; * These verses, adapted to the ancient air of the Flowers of the Forest, are, like those formerly given, the production of a lady. “ The late Mrs. COCKBURN, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire (whose father was Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland), was the authoress. Mrs. COCKBURN has been dead but a few years. Even at an age advanced beyond the usual bounds of humanity, she retained a play of imagination, and an activity of intellect, which must have been attractive and delightful in youth, but was almost preternatural at her period of life. Her active benevolence, keeping pace with her genius, rendered her equally an object of love and admiration. The verses were written at an early period of her life, and without peculiar relation to any event, unless it were the depopulation of Ettrick Forest."-Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.
With the above account of Mrs. COCKBURN, by Mr. Scott, the testimony of Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre is perfectly in uni
He says she was a woman of great wit, who outlived all the first group of literati of the present (eighteenth), century, all of whom were very fond of her. I was delighted with her company, though, when I saw her, she was very old. Much did she know [relative to Scottish song] that is now lost.”
But the sleekie auld priest he wat our eye
TUNE“ Sleepy Maggy."
And nips wi' frost the gizzen'd gowan,
O dearest, charming Katie !
To dwall wi' my sweet neebor Katie.
Creep chitterin' roun the cantie ingle,
O dearest, &c. * This song, it would appear, is a native either of Nithsdale or Galloway; but the author's name is unknown. Mr. CROMEK says that “it is but modern,” and that it “ seems to be a slip, or scion, from Todlin Hame.”
When our back door I gang to steek,
And bonnie Kate, frae her back winnock,
O dearest, &c.
(Frae hapless luve, may fate ay screen us!)
() dearest, 8c.
Swam o'er the sea at Hero's biddin';
O dearest, fc. * * The Editor has heard this song attributed to Ramsay, but with what justice he cannot say, as he never met with it among any of the writings of that Poet, or saw a copy of it save the manuscript one from which it is here given; and this copy was written for him, from memory, by a person who had no recol. lection where he obtained it. But, whoever the author was, it will be allowed that the song is a most excellent one of its kind, and that it satirizes in a happy manner that gross affec. tation of passion, and those overstrained attempts at metaphor, which but too frequently characterize the love songs of inferior writers. The lover, however, is a sentimentalist in his way, and aiblins, somewhat of a humourist; but his sentimentality and his humour are the genuine offspring of unsophisticated Natnre, and sit as freely and easily upon him, as his blue bonnet, or his Sunday's plaid. The manner in which he describes the effect produced on him by love, though homely, and sometimes, indeed, bordering on the ludicrous, is yet congenial to the charac. ter of an untutored mind, and, as a simple expression of feeling, infinitely more natural, than any rhapsody about flames, and darts, and filling eyes, that ever was penned. Leander's crossing the Hellespont was nothing to the task he would perform, were Kate only inclined to lay her commands upon him.