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positions, entitled "Miscellaneous Collection of | cian, and could boast of having been compliPoems, chiefly Scriptural Pieces." Mrs. Inglis died in Edinburgh, December 21, 1843, leaving a very large number of unpublished songs and poems. She was eminently gifted as a musi

mented by Robert Burns on the grace and sweetness with which she had, in his presence, sung "Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes," and others of his own matchless songs and ballads.

SWEET BARD OF ETTRICK'S GLEN.

Sweet bard of Ettrick's glen!
Where art thou wandering?

Miss'd is thy foot on the mountain and lea.
Why round yon craggy rocks
Wander thy heedless flocks,

While lambies are list'ning and bleating for thee?
Cold as the mountain stream,

Pale as the moonlight beam,

Still is thy bosom, and closed is thine e'e.
Wild may the tempest's wave
Sweep o'er thy lonely grave:

Thou art deaf to the storm-it is harmless to thee.

Like a meteor's brief light,

Like the breath of the morning,

Thy life's dream hath pass'd as a shadow gone by;
Till thy soft numbers stealing
O'er memory's warm feeling,

Each line is embalmed with a tear or a sigh.
Sweet was thy melody,

Rich as the rose's dye,

Shedding its odours o'er sorrow or glee;

Love laugh'd on golden wing,

Pleasure's hand touch'd the string,

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All taught the strain to sing, shepherd, by thee. To arms, then! to arms! Let the battle-cry rise

Cold on Benlomond's brow

Flickers the drifted snow,

While down its sides the wild cataracts foam;
Winter's mad winds may sweep
Fierce o'er each glen and steep,

Thy rest is unbroken, and peaceful thy home.
And when on dewy wing

Comes the sweet bird of spring,
Chanting its notes on the bush or the tree:
The Bird of the Wilderness,
Low in the waving grass,
Shall, cow'ring, sing sadly its farewell to thee.

Like the raven's hoarse croak, through their ranks let it sound;

Set their knell on the wing of each arrow that

flies,

Till the shouts of the free shake the mountains around;

Let the cold-blooded, faint-hearted changeling now tremble,

For the war-shock shall reach to his dark

centered cave,

While the laurels that twine round the brows of the victors

Shall with rev'rence be strew'd o'er the tombs of the brave.

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lovers of Scottish song, although financially the publication proved a sufficient failure to deter him from putting forth another volume. Several of Allan's lyrics will compare very favourably with the best specimens of the minor poets of his native land. In his more advanced years he became possessed with the idea that he was not appreciated in Scotland as a poet, and determined, in opposition to the wishes of friends, to join his youngest son in the United States. He accordingly sailed for the New World, April 28, 1841, at the age of sixtyseven, and only survived the passage six days, having died in New York, June 1, 1841. His funeral was attended by a large number of his

ROBERT ALLAN, a friend and companion of Tannahill, was born at Kilbarchan, Renfrewshire, November 4, 1774. Inheriting a taste for music, he early evinced talent in the composition of song, which was afterwards fostered by the encouragement of the poet Tannahill. His occupation was that of a muslin weaver in his native place, and many of his best songs were composed at the loom. A number of them he contributed to the Scottish Minstrel, published by R. A. Smith. Several of Allan's songs also appeared in the Harp of Renfrewshire. In 1836 a volume of his poems was published under the editorial revision of Robert Burns Hardy of Glasgow, and attracted a great deal of attention among | son's friends, including several prominent

American literary men, as well as his own countrymen residing in New York city. Many of Allan's unpublished poems and songs were left in MS. in his son's possession.

in their principal hall, and by other meetings of a festive and social character. At the same time they set on foot a movement for erecting in Kilbarchan some suitable monument to the poet's memory, to which doubtless many natives of that place in Canada and the United States will cheerfully contribute, thus manifesting a tangible sympathy with their countrymen at home in honouring the memory of a simple

On November 4, 1874, the inhabitants of the village that gave birth to Robert Allan, with the praiseworthy spirit of reverence for departed worth which has latterly prevailed throughout Scotland, enthusiastically observed his centennial anniversary by a public soirée | leal-hearted Scotchman.

THE THISTLE AND THE ROSE.

There grew in bonnie Scotland

A thistle and a brier,

And aye they twined and clasp'd,
Like sisters kind and dear.

The rose it was sae bonnie,

It could ilk bosom charm;

The thistle spread its thorny leaf,
To keep the rose frae harm.

A bonnie laddie tended

The rose baith ear' and late;
He water'd it, and fann'd it,
And wove it with his fate:
And the leal hearts of Scotland

Pray'd it might never fa',
The thistle was sae bonny green.
The rose sae like the snaw.

But the weird sisters sat

Where Hope's fair emblems grew; They drapt a drap upon the rose

O' bitter, blasting dew;

And aye they twined the mystic thread,—
But ere their task was done,

The snaw-white shade it disappear'd,
And withered in the sun.

A bonnie laddie tended

The rose baith ear' an late;
He water'd it, and fann'd it.
And wove it with his fate;
But the thistle tap it withered,

Winds bore it far awa',
And Scotland's heart was broken,
For the rose sae like the snaw!

THE TWA MARTYRS' WIDOWS.

Sit down, sit down by thy martyr's side,
And I'se sit down by mine;

And I shall speak o' him to my Gude,
And thou may speak o' thine.

It's wae to thee, and it's wae wi' me,
For our day o' peace is gane,
And we maun sit wi' a tearfu e'e,
In our bouroch-ha' alane.

O Scotland! Scotland, it's wae to thee,
When thy lichts are ta'en awa';
And it's wae, it's wae to a sinfu' lan'
When the richteous sae maun fa'.

It was a halie covenant aith
We made wi' our Gude to keep;
And it's for the halie covenant vow
That we maun sit and weep.

O wha will gang to yon hill-side,
To sing the psalm at e'en?
And wha will speak o' the luve o' our Gude?
For the covenant reft hath been.

The gerse may grow on yon bonnie hill-tap,
And the heather sweetly blume;

But there nae mair we sall sit at e'en,
For our hearts are in the tomb.

The hectic glow is upo' my cheek,

And the lily hue on thine;

Thou sune will lie by thy martyr's side,
And sune I sall sleep by mine.

BONNIE LASSIE.

Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie,
Sweet's the sparkling o' your e'e;
Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,

Ye ha'e stown my heart frae me.
Fondly wooing, fondly sueing,

Let me love, nor love in vain,

Fate shall never fond hearts sever,
Hearts still bound by true love's chain.

Fancy dreaming, hope bright beaming,

Shall each day life's feast renew; Ours the treasure, ours the pleasure, Still to live and love more true.

Mirth and folly, joys unholy,

Never shall our thoughts employ; Smiles inviting, hearts uniting,

Love and bliss without alloy.

Bonnie lassie, blythesome lassie, Sweet's the sparkling o' your e'e; Aye sae wyling, aye beguiling,

Ye ha'e stown my heart frae me.

A LASSIE CAM' TO OUR GATE.

A lassie cam' to our gate yestreen,
An' low she curtsied doun;

She was lovelier far, an' fairer to see
Than a' our ladies roun'.

Oh, whar do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
An' whar may your dwelling be?

But her heart, I trow, was liken to break,
An' the tear-drap dimm'd her e'e.

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-
I haena a hame, nor ha';

Fain here wad I rest my weary feet,
For the night begins to fa'.

I took her into our tapestry ha',
An' we drank the ruddy wine;

An' aye I strave, but fand my heart
Fast bound wi' love's silken twine.

I ween'd she might be the fairies' queen,
She was sae jimp and sma';

And the tear that dimm'd her bonnie blue c'e
Fell owre twa heaps o' snaw.

Oh, whar do ye wend, my sweet winsome doo?
An' whar may your dwelling be?

Can the winter's rain an' the winter's wind
Blaw cauld on sic as ye!

I haena a hame, quo' the bonnie lassie-
I haena a ha' nor hame;

My father was ane o' "Charlie's" men,
An' him I daurna name.

Whate'er be your kith, whate'er be your kin,
Frae this ye mauna gae;

An' gin ye'll consent to be my ain,
Nae marrow ye shall hae.

Sweet maiden, tak' the siller cup,
Sae fu' o' the damask wine,
An' press it to your cherry lip,
For ye shall aye be mine.

An' drink, sweet doo, young Charlie's health,
An' a' your kin sae dear;
Culloden has dimm'd mony an e'e
Wi' mony a saut, saut tear.

LIFE'S A FAUGHT.

That life's a faught there is nae doubt,
A steep and slipp'ry brae,
And wisdom's sel', wi' a' its rules,
Will aften find it sae.

The truest heart that e'er was made
May find a deadly fae.

And broken aiths and faithless vows
Gi'e lovers mickle wae.

When poortith looks wi' sour disdain,

It frights a body sair,

And gars them think they ne'er will meet
Delight or pleasure mair.

But though the heart be e'er sae sad,
And prest wi' joyless care,
Hope lightly steps in at the last,
To fley awa' despair.

For love o' wealth let misers toil,
And fret baith late and air',
A cheerfu' heart has aye enough,

And whiles a mite to spare:
A leal true heart's a gift frae Heav'n,
A gift that is maist rare;

It is a treasure o' itsel',

And lightens ilka care.

Let wealth and pride exalt themsel's,
And boast o' what they ha'e,
Compared wi' truth and honesty,
They are nae worth a strae.
The honest heart keeps aye aboon,
Whate'er the world may say,
And laughs and turns its shafts to scorn,
That ithers would dismay.

Sae let us mak' life's burden light, And drive ilk care awa'; Contentment is a dainty feast, Although in hamely ha';

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