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To the foregoing Tune.
On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.

quite accablé. I attempted to reason with him. Mercy on us, how he did fume and rage! Nothing could reinstate him in temper. I tried various expedients, and at last hit on one that succeeded. I showed him the house of ****, across the bay of Wigton. Against ****, with whom he was offended, he expectorated his spleen, and regained a most agreeable temper. He was in a most epigrammatic humour indeed! He afterwards fell on humbler game. There is one ****** whom he does not love. He had a passing blow at him.

When -, deceased, to the Devil went down,
'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown;
Thy fool's head, quoth Satan, that crown shall wear never,

I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever. “ Well I am to bring you to Kircudbright along with our poet, without boots. I carried the torn ruins across my saddle in spite of his fulminations, and in contempt of appearances; and what is more, Lord SELKIRK carried them in his coach to Dumfries. He insisted they were worth mending.

“ We enjoyed a most happy evening at Lord SELKIRK'S: We had, in every sense of the word, a feast, in which our minds and our senses were equally gratified. The poet was delighted with his company, and acquitted himself to admiration. The lion that had raged so violently in the morning, was now as mild and gentle as a lamb. Next day we returned to Dumfries, and so ends our peregrination. I told you, that in the midst of the storm, on the wilds of Kenmore, BURNS was rapt in meditation. What do you think he was about? He was charging the English army, along with BRUCE, at Bannockburn. He was engaged in the same manner on our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not disturb him. Next day he produced me the Address of Bruce to his troops, and gave me a copy for Dalzell."

But Linden show'd another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,

To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills, by thunder riven-
Then flew the steed to battle driven-
And louder than the bolts of heaven,

Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet these fires shall glow
On Linden's beights of crimson'd snow,
And bloodier yet shall be the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly.
The battle thickens !--On


brave !
Who rush to glory, or the grave-
Wave, Munich !-all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!
'Tis morn;—but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where fiery Frank, and furious Hun,

Shout ’mid their sulph'rous canopy.
Few, few shall part, where many meet,
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every sod beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. * This piece, by the Author of the “ Pleasures of Hope,” is perhaps the only one of the kind, in any language, that can be brought forward as a parallel to that of BURNS; but excellent as it is in respect to composition, Bruce's Address will always obtain a decided preference with those who are susceptible to the genuine glow of patriotic sentiment, and who are capable of sympathizing with “ the desperate relics of a gallant nation, devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding country, or perish with her!”



TUNE_" Sprig of Shillelah.Let them boast of the country gave Patrick his fame, Of the land of the ocean, and Anglian name,

With their red blushing roses, and shamrock sae green; Far dearer to me are the hills of the North, The land of blue mountains, the birth place of worth, Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode, Those wide-spreading glens, where no slave ever trode,

Where blooms the red heather and thistle sae green.

Though rich be the soil, where blossoms the rose;
And bleak the high mountains, and covered with snows,

Where blooms the red heather, and thistle sae green;
Yet for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true,
And for courage so bold, which no foe could subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall’d our swains,
And lovely and true are the nymphs on our plains,

Where rises the thistle--the thistle sae green. Far fam’d are our sires in the battles of yore, And many the cairnies that rise on our shore,

O'er the foes that invaded the thistle sae green; And many a cairnie shall rise on our strand, Should the torrent of war ever burst on our land; Let foe come on foe, like wave upon wave, We'll give them a welcome, we'll give them a grave,

Beneath the red heather and thistle sae green! Oh ! dear to our souls are the blessings of Heav'n, The freedom we boast of, the land which we live in,

The land of the thistle--the thistle sae green: For that land and that freedom our fathers have bled, And we swear by the blood which our fathers have shed, That no foot of a foe shall e'er tread on their grave; But the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave

The thistle of Scotia!-the thistle sae green!


TUNE—" Tibby Fowler in the glen.”
THERE lives a lassie on the brae,

O! but she's a bonnie creature;
They ca’ her Lizy Liberty,
And monie ane's wooing at her.

Wooing at her, fain wad hae her,
Courting at, but canna get her;
Bonnie Lizy Liberty,
There's o'er monie wooing at her,

Her mither wears a plettit mutch;

Her father is an honest dyker,
An' she hersel's a dainty quean,
Ye winna shaw me monie like her..

Wooing at her, &c.

A pleasant lass she's kent to be,

Wi' fouth oʻsense an’ smeddam in her;
There's no a swankie far cr near,
But tries wi' a' his might to win her.

Wooing at her, &c.

But sweet and pleasant as she is,

She winna thole the marriage tether,
But likes to rove and rant about,
Like highland couts amang the heather.

Wooing at her, fc.

It's seven years, and somewhat mair,

Sin' Matthew Dutch made courtship till her ; A merchant bluff, ayont the burn, Wi' heaps o' breeks an' bags o'siller.

Wooing at her, fc.

The next to him was Baltic John,

Stept up the brae and keeket at her, Syne turn'd as great a fool's he came, And in a day or twa forgat her.

Wooing at her, fc.

Now Lawrie French has ta'en the whim,

To toss his airs, and frisk about her; And Malcolm Fleming puffs and swears He disna value life without her.

Wooing at her, 8c.

They've casten out wi' a their kin,

Thinking that wad gar them get her; Yet after a' the fash they've ta’en, They maybe winna be the better.

Wooing at her, fc.

But Donald Scot's the happy lad,

Wha seems to be the coshest wi' her;
He never fails to get a kiss,
As aften as he likes to see her.

Wooing at her, fc.

But Donald, tak' a friend's advice,

Altho' I ken ye fain wad hae her, E'en just be doing as you are, And haud wi' what ye're getting frae her.

Wooing at her, 8c.

Ye're well, and wats nae, as we say,

In getting leave to dwell beside her;
And gin ye had her mair your ain,
Ye'd maybe find it waur to guide her.

Wooing at her, fc.

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