look on the fatal rock. Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children. Half-viewless, they walk in mournful conference together. Will none of you speak in pity? They do not regard their father. I am sad, O Carmor, nor small is my cause of woe!

Such were the words of the bards in the days of song; when the king heard the music of harps, and the tales of other times. The chiefs gathered from all their hills, and heard the lovely sound. They praised the voice of Cona! the first among a thousand bards. But age is now on my tongue; and my soul has failed. I hear sometimes the ghosts of bards, and learn their pleasant song. But memory fails in my mind: I hear the call of years. They say, as they pass along, why does Ossian sing? Soon shall he lie in the narrow house, and no bard shall raise his fame. Roll on, ye darkbrown years, for ye bring no joy on your course. Let the tomb open to Ossian, for his strength has failed. The sons of song are gone to rest; my voice remains, like a blast, that roars, lonely, on a seasurrounded rock, after the winds are laid. The dark moss whistles there, and the distant mariner sees the waving trees.

CARTHON. [Specimen.]

its white head in the breeze. The thistle is there alone, and sheds its aged beard. Two stones, half sunk in the ground, show their heads of moss. The deer of the mountain avoids the place, for he beholds the grey ghost that guards it, for the mighty lie, O Malvina, in the narrow plain of the rock.

A tale of the times of old! the deeds of days of other years!

Who comes from the land of strangers, with his thousands around him? The sunbeam pours its bright stream before him ; and his hair meets the wind of his hills. His face is settled from war. He is calm as the evening beam, that looks from the cloud of the west, on Cona's silent vale. Who is it but Comhal's son, the king of mighty deeds! He beholds his hills with joy, and bids a thousand voices' rise. have fled over your fields, ye sons of the distant land! The king of the world sits in his hall, and hears of his people's flight. He lifts his red eye of pride, and takes his father's sword. "Ye have fled over your fields, sons of the distant land !”

Ye

of days of other years!

The murmur of thy streams, O Lora, brings back the memory of the past. The sound of thy woods, Garmallar, is lovely in mine ear. Dost thou not behold, Malvina, a rock with its head of heath? Three aged firs bend from its face; green is the narrow plain at its feet; there the flower of the mountain grows, and shakes

behold, he comes from the hill, like a steed in his strength, who finds his companions in the breeze; and tosses his bright mane in the wind. Blest be the soul of Clessammor, why so long from Selma?"

"Returns the chief," said Clessammor, "in the midst of his fame? Such was the renown of Comhal in the battles of his

youth. Often did we pass over Carun to the land of the strangers; our swords returned, not unstained with blood: nor did the kings of the world rejoice. Why do I remember the battles of my youth? My hair is mixed with grey. My hand forgets to bend the bow; and I lift a lighter spear. O that my joy would return, as when I first beheld the maid; the whitebosomed daughter of strangers, Moina, with the dark-blue eyes!"

"Tell," said the mighty Fingal, "the tale of thy youthful days. Sorrow, like a cloud on the sun, shades the soul of Clessammor. Mournful are thy thoughts, alone, on the banks of the roaring Lora. Let us hear the sorrow of thy youth, and the darkness of thy days.

"It was in the days of peace," replied the great Clessammor, "I came, in my bounding ship, to Balclutha's walls of towers. The wind had roared behind my sails, and Clutha's streams received my dark-bosomed vessel. Three days I remained in Reuthamir's halls, and saw that. beam of light, his daughter. The joy of the shell went round, and the aged hero gave the fair. Her breasts were like foam on the wave, and her eyes like stars of light her hair was dark as the raven's wing her soul was generous and mild. My love for Moina was great and my heart poured forth in joy.

"The son of a stranger came; a chief who loved the white-bosomed Moina. His words were mighty in the hall, and he often half unsheathed his sword. Where, he said, is the mighty Comhal, the restless wanderer of the heath? Comes he, with his host, to Balclutha, since Clessammor is so bold? My soul, I replied, O warrior! burns in a light of its own. I stand without fear in the midst of thousands, though the valiant are distant far. Stranger! thy words are

mighty, for Clessammor is alone. But. my sword trembles by my side, and longs to glitter in my hand. Speak no more of Comhal, son of the winding Clutha !" "The strength of his pride arose. We fought; he fell beneath my sword. The banks of Clutha heard his fall, and a thousand spears glittered around. I fought; the strangers prevailed: I plunged into the stream of Clutha. My white sails rose over the waves, and I bounded on the dark-blue sea. Moina came to the shore, and rolled the red eye of her tears: her dark hair flew on the wind; and I heard her cries. Often did I turn my ship; but the winds of the east prevailed. Nor Clutha ever since have I seen nor Moina of the dark-brown hair. She fell on Balclutha; for I have seen her ghost. I knew her as she came through the dusky night, along the murmur of Lora: she was like the new moon seen through the gathered mist when the sky pours down its flaky snow, and the world is silent and dark."

"Raise, ye bards," said the mighty Fingal, "the praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our hills; that she may rest with the fair of Morven, the sunbeams of other days, and the delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls and the voice of the people is heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook, there, its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, O bards, over the land of strangers! They have but fallen before

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed; And happy be the lot of a'

That wish the boatie speed.

When Jamie vow'd he would be mine,
And wan frae me my heart,
O muckle lighter grew my creel!
He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel;
And muckle lighter in the lade,

When love bears up the creel.
My kurtch' I put upon my head,

An' dress'd mysel' fu' braw;

I trow my heart was dowf2 and wae,
When Jamie gaed awa:
But weel may the boatie row,
And lucky be her part;

And lightsome be the lassie's care
That yields an honest heart!
When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie,
Are up, and gotten lear,"
They'll help to gar the boatie row,
And lighten a' our care.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel;

And lightsome be her heart that bears
The murlain 2 and the creel!

And when wi' age we are worn down,
And hirpling 3 round the door,
They'll row to keep us hale and warm
As we did them before :
Then, weel may the boatie row,

That wins the bairns' bread;
And happy be the lot of a'
That wish the boatie speed!

TODLIN' HAME.

[From the Tea-Table Miscellany. Burns says:-"This is perhaps the first bottle-song that ever was composed." We presume he meant as to its merits as such.]

When I ha'e a saxpence under my thoom, Then I get credit in ilka toun; [by:

But aye when I'm puir they bid me gang Oh, poverty parts gude company!

Todlin' hame, todlin' hame,

Couldna my loove come todlin' hame?

We tak' a gude scour o't, and ca't awa'. Todlin' hame, todlin' hame,

As round as a neep come todlin' hame.
My kimmer and I lay down to sleep,
Wi' twa pint stoups at our bed's feet;
And aye when we waken'd we drank them
dry:-

What think ye o' my wee kimmer and I?
Todlin' butt, and todlin' ben [hame.
Sae round as my loove comes todlin'
Leeze me on liquor, my todlin' dow,
Ye're aye sae gude-humour'd when weetin'
your mou'!

me,