An' a' the while a wavering blush
Her modest fears discloses,

Like a bonny bird that sings embowered
Amang a bush o' roses.

Whan coming frae the fair wi' her,
Though e'er sae late at een,

The gloom is light, an hour's a blink,
The muir's a foggy green.

But what I like the best of a',
She says whan I'm beside her,
Be't light, be't dark, she never thinks
That skaith can e'er betide her.

SONG.

MAIDA, OR THE BEGINNIN' O'T.

Tune-A Rock and a Wee Pickle Tow.

AT Maida our Scotch lads gied Frenchmen a fleg,
Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!

For numbers maist double they cared na a feg;
That was na an ill beginnin' o't.

Puir Regnier drew up on the side o' a brae,
Wi' a bog an' a wood atween him and the fae;
But for braes, bogs, and woods, Scotchmen cared
na a strae,

An' they wist but to see the beginnin' o't.

Up the hill, like a misty cloud after a shower,
Our lads breasted up to the winnin' o't;

Frae the right to the left ilka face leukit doure,

An' wist but to hear the beginnin' o't.

Now the silence was dead, till mak ready! was heard,
Syne click gied ilk lock; level laigh was the word:-
Here and there some French braggers lay flat on
the yird;

Was na that a guid beginnin' o't!

But a' this was sport to the deeds o' the day,
For what was it but the beginnin' o't,-
Till STUART cries-charge! then hey for the fae,
And our callans push on to the winnin' o't.
But at the first clash that the bagonets gie,
The Frenchmen they swither, they stoiter, they

flee:

In the race, as in fechtin', our lads bear the gree,
O that was a bonny rinnin' o't!

THE

COTTAR'S LAMENT.

AN'

maun we leave our heartsome hame,

To wander far awa';

An' maun we leave the glen sae lown,

Below the birken shaw;

An' maun our wee things nae mair wade, An' paidle in the burn;

An' maun we a', baith auld and young, Learn,-Man was made to mourn!

In some unhalesome, darksome town,
We'll, ablins, find a bield;

An' whan we're sick, the house o' dool
Our helpless heads will shield:

But nae kent faces there will sit

To watch the troubled hour;

An' stranger's hands will turn the couch, Wi' looks baith cauld and doure:

The bloom upon the infant cheeks,
That glint wi' thoughtless glee,"
Will fade right fast; and for the rose,
A sallow hue we'll see.

O then gif fok, wha hae the power,
This ae cot-house wad spare!
Our wee things' hands, up wa' and roof,
Wad train the woodbine fair.

A sweetbrier hedge we'd plant a' round,
To scent the gloamin' hour;
And change a cottar's hamely hut
Into a bonny bower.

O gin the fok, wha hae the power,
Wad say the word---remain;
What they in gowd and siller tint,
They wad in blessins gain: