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No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly sing,


Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.

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


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! can I make you no sweeter return!



By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was grey;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars :
We dare na’ weel say't, but we ken wha's to

blame There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the

yerd: It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dameThere'll never be peace 'till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment, my words are the same,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame,


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:

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth and ye

skies, Now gay

with the broad 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 poor 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

0, who would not die with the brave !

From the Reliques.



Tune-The Dragon of Wantley.

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw,

That Scot to Scot did carry;
And dire the discord Langside saw,

For beauteous, hapless Mary :
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot,

Or were more in fury seen, sir,
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous

Who should be Faculty's Dean, sir.

This Hal, for genius, wit, and lore,

Among the first was numbered ; But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store,

Commandment tenth remember'd.
Yet simple Bob the victory got,

And wan his heart's desire;
Which shews that heaven can boil the pot,

Though the devil p-s in the fire.

Squire Hal, besides, had in this case

Pretensions rather brassy,
For talents to deserye a place

Are qualifications saucy;
So their worships of the Faculty,

Quite sick of merit's rudeness,
Chose one who should owe it all, d'ye şee,

To their gratis grace and goodness.

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the siglt

of a son of circumcision,
So may be, on this Pisgah height,

Bob's purblind mental vision:
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet
Till for eloquence you hail him,

And swear he has the angel met

That met the ass of Balaam.




He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist,

He quoted and he hinted,
Till in a declamation-mist,

His argument he tint* it;
He gap'd for 't, he gap'd tor 't,

He fand it was awa, man;
But what his common sense come short,

He eked out wi' law, man.


Collected Harry stood awee,

Then open'd out his arm, man;
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e,

And ey'd the gathering storm, man.
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail,

Or torrents owre a lin, man ;
The Bench sae wise lift up their eyes,

Half-wauken'd wi' the din, man.



(A Parody on Robin Adair.)

You're welcome to despots, Dumourier;
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier.
How does Dampiere do?
Ay, and Bournonville too?
Why did they not come along with you, Dymou-

rier ?

I will fight France With you, Dumourier,
I will fight France with you, Dumourier :-
I will fight France with you,
I will take my chance with you ;
By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier ;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier ;
Then let us fight about,
'Till freedom's spark is out,
Then we'll be d-mned no doubt-Dumourier".


Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires ;
To Evan Banks, with temperate ray,
Home of my youth, he leads the day.

* It is almost needless to observe, that the song of Robin Adair begins thus:-

You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair ;
You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair.
How does Johnny Mackerell do?
Ay, and Luke Gardiner too?
Why did they not come along with you, Rabin

Adair ?

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