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And when young Derwentwater kneel'd,

My gentle fair ladie!

The tears gave way to the glow o' luve

In our gude ladie's e'e.

I will think me on this bonnie ring,
And on this snawy hand,
When on the helmy ridge o' weir
Comes down my burly brand.
And I will think on thae links o' gowd
Which ring thy bright blue een,
When I wipe off the gore o' weir,
And owre my braid sword lean.

O never a word our ladie spake,
As he press'd her snawy hand;
And never a word our ladie spake,
As her jimpy waist he spann'd;
But, O my Derwentwater! she sighed,
When his glowing lips she fand.

He has drapp'd frae his hand the tassel o' gowd Which knots his gude weir-glove,

And he has drapp'd a spark frae his een

Which gars our ladie love.

Come down, come down, our gude lord says,

Come down, my fair ladie;

O dinna young Lord Derwent stop,

The morning sun is hie.

VOL. III.

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Thy harlot front, frae the white curtain, Jud
Betokens naething gude.

Our ladie look'd frae the turret top

As lang as she could see ;
And every sigh for her gude lord,
For Derwent there were three.

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I believe there is no traditional testimony to support the surmise of the poet, that the wife of one of the Jacobite chiefs had a criminal regard for the unfortunate Earl of Derwentwater. He was a young and brave and generous nobleman, and his fate was vehemently lamented in the north of England. The aurora borealis, which appeared then for the first time, and shone remarkably vivid on the night of his execution, is still known in the north by the name of Lord Derwentwater's lights. A very beautiful song is popularly known by the title of "Lord Derwentwater's good night."

And fare thee well, my bonnie gray steed,
That carried me ay sae free,

I wish I had been asleep in my bed,

The last time I mounted thee:

The warning bell now bids me cease,

My trouble's nearly o'er;

Yon sun now rising from the sea

Shall rise on me no more.

Fifteen hundred braver men never were led to battle than those whom Derwentwater conducted to Preston: but the senses of the leaders seemed bewildered and confounded, and they allowed themselves to be surrounded and manacled, and conducted to the axe and the gibbet without murmur or resistance.

AWA WHIGS, AWA.

Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonny bloom'd our roses,
But whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.

Awa whigs, awa,

Awa whigs, awa;

Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons,
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.

Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving;

The whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi' thriving.

A foreign whiggish loon brought seeds,
In Scottish yird to cover;

But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,
And pack him to Hanover.

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,

H

Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!

And write their names i' his black beuk,
Wha ga'e the whigs the power o't!

Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken:
Gude help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin.

The deil he heard the stour o' tongues,
And ramping came amang us;
But he pitied us sae wi' cursed whigs,
He turn'd, and wadna wrang us.

Sae grim he sat amang the reek,

Thrang bundling brimstone matches;
And croon'd, 'mang the beuk-taking whigs,
Scraps of auld Calvin's catches.

Awa whigs, awa,

Awa whigs, awa;

Ye'll rin me out o' wun spunks,
And ne'er do good at a'.

Some of the lines of this song are as old as the days of Oliver Cromwell, and some of them are of very recent composition. It was a favourite fancy of the Jacobites to place their enemies in perdition, and distribute infernal power and rule among them according to their

labours in the cause of the house of Orange or Hanover. Meston, and many nameless writers, indulged in this poetical mode of punishment; which drew down upon them the indignant reproach of Addison. I wish not to defend it; but since the Whigs divided all power and domination among themselves on this earth, the Jacobites might be justified in their imaginary appropriation of paradise and in allotting a place of punishment to their enemies.-The air of the song is very ancient.

THE WEE WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

Wha the deil hae we got for a king
But a wee wee German lairdie ?
And when we gade to bring him hame
He was delving his kail-yardie:
Sheughing kail, and laying leeks,

Without the hose, and but the breeks;
And up his beggar duds he cleeks-

The wee wee German lairdie.

And he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,
The wee wee German lairdie;

And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash,

And dibbled them in his yardie.

He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns,
But our thistle top will jag his thumbs-
The wee wee German lairdie.

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