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In days o' yore, when to our shore,

For aid the gallant Bruce did come,
His lieges leal, did tak' the fiel',

An' march'd to Prestwick drum.
Gude service aften is forgot,
An' favour won by crafty plot,
An' sik, alas! has been the lot

O’ Prestwick's ancient drum.

“ The original charter of Prestwick is now lost, but is referred to, in the renewed grant by James VI. of Scotland. Bruce having at first been unsuccessful, after passing some time in exile, reappeared in Arran, and crossing the Frith, landed on Prestwick shore, where the inhabitants joined his standard in considerable

for which service, the king was pleased to erect their town into a barony, with a jurisdiction extending from the Water of Ayr to the Water of Irvine.”



Ob, have I burned, or have I slain,

Or bave I done ought of injury !
I've slighted the lass I may ne'er see again,

The Baillie's daughter of bonny Dundee.

Bonny Dundee, and bonny Dundas,

Where shall I meet sae comely a lass!
Open your ports and let me gang free,

I maunna stay langer in bonny Dundee! It is barely necessary to mention here, that the two concluding lines of the above lively fragment, are those sung by Rob Roy, towards the finale of his midnight interview with Baillie Nicol Jarvie, in the Tolbooth of Glasgow. See the historical novel of “ Rob Roy."



Will ye go to Aldavalloch?
Will ye go to Aldavalloch?
Sweet the mellow mavis sings,
Amang the braes of Aldavalloch.

There, beneath the spreading boughs,

Amang the woods of green Glenfalloch, Softly murmuring as it flows,

Winds the pure stream of Aldavalloch.

The first golden smile of morn,

And the last beam that evening sheddeth, Baith that echoing vale adorn

That brightly glows, this mildly fadeth.

Short is there hoar winter's stay,

When spring returns like Hebe bloomingHand in hand with rosy May,

With balmy breath the air perfuming.

Than ever grew

But there's a flower, a fairer flower


The blithesome maiden I adore,

Young blooming May of Aldavalloch.

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Let me but pu' this opening rose,

And fondly press it to my bosom;
I ask no other flower that blows,

Be mine this modest little blossom.

“ The lady who favoured the public with the well-known Song called . Roy's Wife,' says a writer in the Literary Chronicle, forgot to mention the obligation she lay under to the original, of which the above is a close imitation, and, in some instances, a literal translation. This beautiful air is at least a hundred and twenty years old, for I learned it twenty-eight years ago, from a Mrs. M‘Hardy, who was then in the hundred and sixth year of her age, and who said, that when a little girl, she had learned it of her mother; whereas, the Scottish words to the same tune have not been known half that time. Indeed, the greater part of the old Scottish melodies may be traced back to the Gaelic bards: “The ewie wi' the crooked horn,” “The rock and the wee pickle tow,' &c. are of Gaelic original, and have been known in the Highlands from time immemorial. As I am now upon this subject, I cannot help mentioning, that the last stanza of · Roy's Wife' has been rendered downright nonsense, by the creation of the uncouth term Walloch, in order to rhyme with the proper name, Aldavalloch. New words are daily invented, to designate things not already adequately described, but no such dance as • The Highland Walloch' ever did exist, though any one but a Highlander, on reading the stanza in question, would be led to suppose the reverse."


The boatmen shout, “'tis time to part,

No longer can we stay;"
'Twas thus Maimuna taught my heart,

How much a glance could say.

With trembling steps to me she came;

“ Farewell,” she would have cried! But ere her lips the word could frame,

In half-form'd sounds it died.

Then kneeling down with looks of love,

Her arms she round me flung;
And as the gale hangs on the grove,

Upon my breast she hung.
My willing arms embraced the maid,

My heart with raptures beat;
While she but


and said,
“Would we had never met.”

Abou Mohammed, a celebrated musician of Bagdad, says Professor Carlyle in his Selections from Arabian Poetry, 1810, being desired to produce a specimen of his abilities before the Khaliph Wathek, A. Hejræ 227, sung the foregoing, and such were its effects upon the Khaliph, that he immediately testified his approbation of the performance, by throwing his own robe over the poet's shoulders, and ordering him to receive a present of one hundred thousand dirhams.

Twenty-two and a half dirhams, according to our authority, the Hindostan Dictionary, being about equal to nine shillings sterling, any gentle poet of calculation may, at his leisure, sum up the copy-right price of this eminently beautiful Eastern production.


Night closed around: in gusts the hail

Beat furious down the rocky steep:
Matilda's ruddy cheek grew pale,

As the blast yell’d round in angry sweep.



The thunders roll'd above the wood,

The red-stream'd lightnings play'd around; Near a lone blasted oak she stood,

Where the pale glow-worms lit the ground.

Where can I rest my wearied form,

In frantic mood the lady cried, Or shield my baby from the storm?

And such a storm!—she wept and sigh’d.

Where loud waves round the dark clifts beat,

A flickering gleam of light she spied; Cold shivering through the driving sleet,

O'er the sharp flinty rocks she hied.

The scorched heath, and the feathery brake,

Hung withering o'er the dingle's side, As lorn she wander'd by the lake,

With the struggling moonbeams for her guide:

Unseemly weeds of varied hue,

Grew round the cavern tall and rank;
Here, drop-wort—there, the monk's hood blue,

Tangled the dark lake's hoary bank.

In sooth, this was as wild a scene,

As mortal eye had ere survey'd;
Or fancy dream'd could ere have been, .

Found on the world, where'er we stray'd.

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