thoress of "Auld Robin Gray." Many liberties have been taken with the words: there are few songs which have undergone more changes within these forty years. The present version differs from all that precede it; and it seems to me to have increased in sweetness and simplicity. The story of the song is very simple, and is generally felt, because it is true.Some forty years ago, in the north country, oppressors like "Logie the laird" were not wanting, to dispose of the surplus youth of the district to the army or the plantations; and many moving stories might be told of such acts of tyranny and injustice.

THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER.

In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome,
From the heath-cover'd mountains of Scotia we come:
When the Romans endeavour'd our country to gain,
O our ancestors fought, and they fought not in vain.

Such is our love of liberty, our country, and our laws,
That, like our ancestors of old, we'll stand in freedom's

cause:

We'll bravely fight, like heroes bold, for honour and applause,

And defy the French, with all their force, to alter our laws.

No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace; ba
No luxurious tables enervate our race

Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain, And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain.

We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale,
And swift as the roe which the hound doth assail;
As the full moon in autumn our shields do appear; cal
Ev'n Minerva would dread to encounter our spear.

As a storm in the ocean, when Boreas blows,

So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foes;
We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks,
Dash the force of our foes with our thundering strokes.

Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France,
In their strength fondly boasted till we did advance;
But when our claymores they saw us produce,
Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce.

In our realm may the fury of faction long cease,
May our councils be wise and our commerce increase,
And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find,
That our friends still prove true, and our beauties prove
kind.

Sir Harry Erskine of Torry wrote this song, and the fine air has combined with national vanity to give greater popularity to the words than they seem to merit. There is a good deal of animation and some pedantry-a great

love of country and a moderate love of truth, and an enthusiasm which carries patriotism into bombast. wish his praise of our valour had been more modest, and his account of our exploits more discreet. It was printed by David Herd in 1769, and the music was added by General Reid. More natural strains and more accurate praise have succeeded in rendering this far-famed song less a favourite than heretofore.

THE SMILING PLAINS, PROFUSELY GAY.

The smiling plains, profusely gay,
Are drest in all the pride of May;
The birds, on every spray above,
To rapture wake the vocal grove;
But, ah! Miranda, without thee,
Nor spring nor summer smiles on me;
All lonely in the secret shade

I mourn thy absence, charming maid!

O soft as love! as honour fair!
Serenely sweet as vernal air!
Come to my arms; for thou alone
Canst all my absence past atone.
O come! and to my bleeding heart
The sovereign balm of love impart ;

Thy presence lasting joy shall bring,

And give the year eternal spring.

To William Falconer, author of "The Shipwreck," we owe this song, if we can imagine we have incurred a debt of obligation or praise by such a hasty and imperfect production. It contains nothing either peculiar or national-its love is general, and its description diffuse. I could not refuse place to a brief effusion of an unfortunate son of song; and the pleasure which his fine poem of "The Shipwreck" has given me would have secured insertion to less captivating verse. The new scenes which that pathetic poem opened, and the perfect enchantment which the whole narrative threw over me, were such as I can never forget. The truth and nature of his story-the singular mixture of ancient glory with present sufferings-the labours of the mariners-the augmenting fury of the devouring element, and the final catastrophe, form altogether a tale which one cannot well escape from without reading; and when once read, it possesses and haunts one. In December 1769 he sailed for India in the Aurora frigate, in the 39th year of his age: the ship was never more heard of after leaving the Cape of Good Hope, and the poet perished with her. He was a native of Edinburgh.

HARK YON SWEET BIRD.

Hark

yon sweet bird that lonely wails,

His faithful bosom grief assails:

Last night I heard him in a dream,
When death and woe were all the theme.
Like that poor bird, I make my moan-
I grieve for one that's dead and gone :
With him, to gloomy woods I'll fly-
He wails for love, and so do I!

'Twas love that tamed his tender breast-
"Tis grief that robs him of his rest;
He droops his wings and hangs his head,
Since she he fondly loved is dead!
With my love's breath my joy is gone-
With my love's smiles my peace is flown;
Like that poor bird I pine, and prove
Nought can supply the place of love!

He hangs his feathers since that fate
Deprived him of his darling mate;
Dimmed is the brightness of his eye;
His song is now a short sad cry;
No more the hills and woods among
He'll cheer us with his charming song;