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THE LASSIE O' THE GLEN. TUNE,—“ Tiunntai uam le tofheusaig ribaich." A Gaelic Air.

BENEATH a hill, 'mang birken bushes,

By a burnie's dimpilt linn,
I told my love, wi' artless blushes,
To the lassie o'the glen.
O the birken bank sae grassy,

Hey the burnie's dimpilt linn :
Dear to me's the bonnie lassie,

Living in yon rashy glen.
Lanely Ruail! thy stream sae glassy,

Shall be ay my fav’rite theme;
For, on thy banks my Highland lassie
First confess'd a mutual flame.

O the birken, &c.
There, as she mark’d the sportive fishes

Upward spring wi' quiv'ring fin,
I slyly stole some melting kisses,
Frae the lassie o' the glen.

O the birken, &c.
What bliss ! to sit, and nane to fash us,

In some sweet wee bow'ry den;
Or fondly stray amang the rashes,
Wi' the lassie o' the glen.

O the birken, &c.
But tho' I wander now unhappy,

Far frae scenes we haunted then,
I'll ne'er forget the-bank sae grassy,
Nor-the lassie o' the glen,

0. the birken, &c. * The above song is another of the productions of Mr. ANGUS FLETCHER (see page 170). Ruail (mentioned in the 2d verse) is a beautiful stream that winds slowly through the whole length

the pastoral valley of Glendaruel, Argyllshire.


Tune-" I had a horse."
Now westlin winds, and slaught'ring guns

Bring autumn's pleasant weather ;
The moorcock springs on whirring wings,

Among the blooming heather :
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,

Delights the weary farmer;
And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night,

To muse upon my charmer.
The partridge loves the fruitful fells;

The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;

The soaring hern the fountains;
Thro’ lofty groves the cushat roves,

The path of man to shun it;
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,

The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus every kind their pleasure find,

and the tender;
Some social join and leagues combine;

Some solitary wander:
Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,

Tyrannic man's dominion;
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,

The flutt'ring, gory pinion!
But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,

Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the field in view,

All fading-green and yellow :
Come let us stray our gladsome way,

And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,

And ev'ry happy creature,

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,

Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,

Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,

Not autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be as thou to me,

My fair, my lovely charmer !


TUNE_" Cauld kail in Aberdeen." How long and drearie is the night, When I am frae


I restless lie frae e'en to morn,
Tho' I were ne'er sae wearie.
For, oh! her lanely nights are lang ;

And, oh! her dreanis are eerie :
And, oh! her widow'd heart is sair

That's absent frae her dearie.
When I think on the lightsôme days

I spent wi' thee, my dearie ;
And now what seas between us roar,
How can I be but eerie ?

For, oh! &c.

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours !

The joyless day, how drearie! It was nae sae ye glinted by, When I was wi' my dearie.

For, oz! 8c.


TUNE—“ Dainty Davie."
Now rosy May comes in wi' flow'rs,
To deck her gay green spreading bow'rs,
And now comes in my happy hours,

To wander wi' my Davie.
The crystal waters round us fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A-wandering wi' my Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,

Daintie Davie, Daintie Davie ;
There I'll spend the day wi' you,

My ain dear daintie Davie.
When purple morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro' the dews I will repair,

To meet my faithfu’ Davie.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o’ Nature's rest,
I flee to his arms I loo best,
And that's my ain dear Davie.

Meet me on, &c.

Let us go, lassie, go

To the braes o Balquhither,
Where the blae-berries grow

’Mang bonnie Highland beather ;
Where the deer and the rae,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day,

On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bow'r,

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flow'rs o' the mountain ;
I will range thro’ the wilds,

And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' their spoils,
To the bow'r o'


When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling,
So merrily we'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us,
'Till the dear sheeling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer is in prime,

Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme

A’ the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together,
Where glad Innocence reigns

'Mang the braes o' Balqubither. *

The above song, by ROBERT Tandahill, is highly characteristic of that Poet's manner. In the warmth of his feeling he always refers us to those juvenile eras of our life which fancy has gilded over with her brightest hues, and which the more cold and formal hand of fastidious judgment has not been able wholly to discolour. By this manner, which we think the very soul of compositions of this kind, he has ever a ready access to our heart, by re-embodying those lively images of past delight in our minds, which we never can contemplate but with enthusiasm: and let the inhabitant of the flowery lawn, when he combines no glowing idea with the bleak and barren hill, reflect that it is not scenery alone, but that connexion which subsists in our

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