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THE DARIEN SONG.

We will go, maidens, go

To the lonesome woods and mourn, Where the primroses blow,

Till our gallant lads return: Till from Darien's sunny land

We shall welcome back again That young and goodly companie That ventured o'er the main.

We will go, lady, go

To the lonesome wood wi' thee; Though chill the winds should blow, While those weary days we dree. Our lovers' banners proudly waved As they sailed o'er the faemAlas! when will that sweet wind blow Will waft our gallants hame?

O there were white hands waved,
And many a parting hail
As their vessel stemmed the tide,

sail :

And stretched the snowy
With many a sigh and bitter tear,

And many a parting sign,

Away they went to spread our fame

Along the boundless brine.

You may go, maidens, go

Your weary days to dree,

But I shall never see you more
Come laughing o'er the lea:

With watching will your eyes be dim,
And meikle will you mourn,

For never will the lads

you

love

From Darien's shore return.

"On the 26th of July, 1698, the whole city of Edinburgh poured down upon Leith, to see the colony depart amid the tears and prayers of relations and friends, and of their countrymen. Neighbouring nations, with a mixture of surprise and respect, saw the poorest kingdom of Europe sending forth the most gallant and most numerous colony that had ever gone from the Old to the New World."-Sir J. Dalrymple's Remains. The sordid policy of foreign powers, and the treachery of King William, united to ruin the famous Scottish colony of Darien. For nearly half a century, the cruel extinction of this young colony, and the infamous murder of the people of Glenco, were considered, in Scotland, as national grievances, of which the house of Stuart long held out the hope of redress or revenge. This beautiful song expresses very meekly the fears and feelings of the nation.

LOCH-ERROCH SIDE.

As I came by Loch-Erroch side,
The lofty hills surveying,
The water clear, the heather blooms
Their fragrance sweet conveying,
I met unsought my lovely maid,
I found her like May morning,
With graces sweet, and charms so rare,
Her person all adorning.

How kind her looks, how blest was I,
While in my arms I press'd her!
And she her wishes scarce conceal'd
As fondly I caress'd her.
She said, If that your heart be true,
If constantly you'll love me,

I heed not care nor fortune's frowns,

For nought but death shall move me :

But faithful, loving, true, and kind
For ever you shall find me;
And of our meeting here so sweet,
Loch-Erroch sweet shall mind me.
Enraptur'd then, My lovely lass,
I cried, no more we'll tarry;

We'll leave the fair Loch-Erroch side,
For lovers soon should marry.

This song is supposed to be the composition of James Tytler, author of " The Bonnie Brucket Lassie." It is copied from Johnson's Musical Museum, where it stands side by side with a song on the same subject by Burns. It wants the original merit of Tytler's other fine song; but original merit is a matter of great rarity, and most of our modern songs only re-echo, in softer language and smoother numbers, the lively and graphic strains of our ancestors. In truth, many of our latter lyrics are made from the impulse of other songs, rather than from the native feelings of the heart-and lyric love and heroism are felt through the medium of verse, when they should come warm and animated from the bosom.

THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove'

Thou messenger of spring!
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green
Thy certain voice we hear:
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

VOL. III.

Y

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,

And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The schoolboy, wandering through the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts, the new voice of spring to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloom

Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green,

Thy sky is ever clear;

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,
No winter in thy year.

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit o'er the globe,
Companions of the spring.

The oldest English song yet published is in praise of the Cuckoo-it is very natural and very curious and

very

authentic

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