THE BONIE LASS OF ALBANY

This lovely maid's of royal blood
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three,
But oh, alas! for her bonie face,
They've wrang'd the Lass of Albany.

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde
There sits an isle of high degree,
And a town of fame whose princely name
Should grace the Lass of Albany.

But there's a youth, a witless youth,
That fills the place where she should be;
We'll send him o'er to his native shore,
And bring our ain sweet Albany.

Alas the day, and woe the day,

A false usurper wan the gree,

Who now commands the towers and lands-
The royal right of Albany.

of York, "ma chère fille étant re-
connue par moi, par la France, par le
Pape, est Altesse Royale." (Brit.
Mus. Add. MSS. 34, 364.) Charles
could not acknowledge a marriage
with Miss Walkinshaw without pro-
claiming himself a bigamist, and Miss
Walkinshaw had long before made a
formal affidavit that she was never
married. In her own Mémoire of
December 22, 1772, Charlotte Stuart
does not pretend that her father and
mother were united by marriage.
(Archives des Affaires Etrangères. Mem.
et Doc. Angleterre, vol. 81, pp. 71-
72.) On July 13, 1784, Charles sent
to the Comte de Vergennes, for the
Parlement de Paris, letters of legitima-
tion for his daughter. (Archives, 81,

153.) Charles speaks expressly of his "natural daughter." This charming and beautiful woman soothed the last days of her father, who, in many letters, speaks of her with touching affection. She did not long survive

him.

Apparently the Parlement de Paris did not give full legal sanction to Charles's letters of 1784, till September 6, 1787. Among suggestions for medals to be struck on this occasion, was one bearing the legend Spes Extrema et Exigua. It is stated, on what authority the Editor does not know, that Miss Walkinshaw protested against her own repudiation of a marriage with Charles, signed by her in presence of Waters, the Paris Agent of the Stuarts. But no documentary evidence in favour of a marriage ceremony is known to have been produced. The Editor has consulted the MSS. Letter Books of Andrew Lumsden, Secretary to the exiled James III., where an authenticated copy of Miss Walkinshaw's disclaimer of marriage exists. Among modern Stuart pretenders one professed to be descended from Miss Walkinshaw's daughter Charlotte, by a secret marriage.

ON SCARING WATER-FOWL

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,
The time may come, with pipe an' drum
We'll welcome hame fair Albany.

On Scaring some Water-fowl

In Loch Turit.

A wild scene among the Hills of Oughtertyre.1

"This was the production of a solitary forenoon's walk from Oughtertyre House. I lived there, the guest of Sir William Murray, for two or three weeks, and was much flattered by my hospitable reception. What a pity that the mere emotions of gratitude are so impotent in this world. Tis lucky that, as we are told, they will be of some avail in the world to come." -R. B., Glenriddell MSS.

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,

For me your wat'ry haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties ?—
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,
Bide the surging billow's shock.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

1 The date is about October 15. Burns, as Chambers hints, may have

been making interest for a place in the Excise.

BLYTHE WAS SHE

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels :
But Man, to whom alone is giv'n
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n,
Glories in his heart humane-
And creatures for his pleasure slain!

In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wand'ring swains,
Where the mossy riv❜let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways;
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.

Or, if man's superior might
Dare invade your native right,
On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his pow'rs you scorn;
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

Blythe was She.1

Tune-" Andro and his Cutty Gun."
Chorus-Blythe, blythe and merry was she,
Blythe was she but and ben";
Blythe by the banks of Earn,
And blythe in Glenturit glen.

By Oughtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shawb;

But Phemie was a bonier lass

Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.

Blythe, blythe, &c.

in all the house.

b birch wood.

Phemie is Miss Euphemia Murray, a cousin of

1 Written at Oughtertyre. Sir William Murray of Oughtertyre.

ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK

Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn:
She tripped by the banks o' Earn,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, blythe, &c.

Her bonie face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lea;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
Blythe, blythe, &c.

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lawlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, blythe, &c.

A Rose-bud by my Early Walk.1

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,a
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awake the early morning.

⚫ field-path.

1 Dated in October after returning from Oughtertyre.

THE BANKS OF THE DEVON

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care

a

That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning.

Epitaph for Mr W. Cruikshank.1

HONEST WILL to Heaven's away

And mony shall lament him;

His fau'ts they a' in Latin lay,

In English nane e'er kent them.

Song-The Banks of the Devon.2

Tune-"Bhanarach dhonn a' chruidh."

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,
With green spreading bushes and flow'rs blooming fair i
But the boniest flow'r on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew;
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!

O spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden or lawn!

a watches.

1 Mr Cruikshank was an Edinburgh High School master.

2 Written Hamilton.

on a Miss Charlotte