Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree;
Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free!
Free as his lord the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain.

Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might:
Dear native valleys, may ye long retain
The chartered freedom of the mountain swain
Long, mid your sounding glades, in union sweet,
May rural innocence and beauty meet;
And still be duly heard, at twilight calm,
From every cot the peasant's chanted psalm!

Then, Jedworth, though thy ancient choirs shall fade,
And time lay bare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie;
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong,
By Jed's pure stream, a sweeter ev'ning song
Than long processions once, with mystic zeal,
Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's peal.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Written for Mr. Thomson's Collection, on the return of the Highland regiment

from Waterloo.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil :
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons;

Come in your war array,

Gentles and commons!

M

MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ;

All the blue bonnets are over the Border.
Many a banner spread flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story;

Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mountain glen
Fight for your queen and the old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing;
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing;
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding, war-steeds are bounding;
Stand to your arms and march in good order;
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray,

When the blue bonnets came over the Border.

The above spirited song, by Sir Walter Scott, was founded upon "General Leslie's march to Longmarston Moor," which appeared in Allan Ramsay's "Tea-Table Mircellany," where it is marked as ancient, and as one of which Ramsay neither knew the age nor the author. The old song is of little or no merit, but is inserted here as

a curiosity, and as showing out of what rude materials Scott constructed the modern song, which has since become so celebrated.

GENERAL LESLIE'S MARCH TO LONGMARSTON MOOR.

March, march, why the deil dinna ye march?
Stand to your arms, my lads; fight in good order.
Front about, ye musketeers all,

Till ye come to the English Border.

Stand till't and fight like men,

True gospel to maintain;

The Parliament's blythe to see us a-coming.

When to the kirk we come,

We'll purge it ilka room

Frae Popish relics and a' sic innovation,

That a' the world may see

There's nane in the right but we

Of the auld Scottish nation.

Jenny shall wear the hood,

Jockie the sark of God;

And the kist fu' o' whistles that maks sic a cleiro,

Our pipers braw

Shall hae them a'.

Whate'er come on it,

Busk up your plaids, my lads,

Cock up your bonnets.

OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE?

MRS. GRANT of Laggan; born 1755, died 1838. Air-"The blue-bells of Scotland."

OH, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone?
Oh, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone?
He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.

Oh, where, tell me where did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh, where, tell me where did your Highland laddie stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing follow'd him the day he went away.

Oh, what, tell me what does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh, what, tell me what does your Highland laddie wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star.

Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound

Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound. The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye.

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds.
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name re-
sounds.

This song, founded on a more ancient one with the same title, was written for the collection of Mr. George Thomson after the death of Burns. The subject was the departure for the Continent, with his regiment, of the Marquis of Huntly in 1799.

THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.

WILLIAM GLEN. Air-" Whistle o'er the lave o't."

SING, a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim,
High glory gi'e to gallant Grahame,
Heap laurels on our marshal's fame,
Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,
An' raised her stately form again,
Whan the British Lion shook his mane
On the mountains o' Vittoria.

Let blust'rin' Suchet crously crack,
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
And Jourdan wish his baton back

He left upon Vittoria ;

If e'er they meet their worthy king,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scottish piper play the spring
He blew them at Vittoria.

Gi'e truth an' honour to the Dane,
Gi'e German's monarch heart and brain;
aye in sic a cause as Spain,

But

Gi'e Britons a Vittoria.