A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew:
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,

"Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue !"
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods were her favourite resort,
Her darling amusement the hounds and the horn.
Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :
Repeated, successive, for many long years,
They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land :
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside;
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly-
The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore!
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore;
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,
No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.

The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose,
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life:
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Oft prowling, ensanguined the Tweed's silver flood:
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run :

For brave Caledonia immortal must be ;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose,

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base;

But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse;

Then, ergo, she'll match them, and match them always.

It was a' for our rightfu' king
We e'er saw Irish land, my dear,
We e'er saw Irish land.

Now a' is done that men can do,
And a' is done in vain ;

My love and native land farewell,
For I maun cross the main, my dear,
For I maun cross the main.

He turn'd him right and round about,
Upon the Irish shore;

And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore, my dear,
With adieu for evermore.

The sodger frae the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main ;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again, my dear,
Never to meet again.

When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep;

I think on him that's far awa',

The lee-lang night, and weep, my dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.

Then lea'e the lassie till her fate,
And time nae langer spill, jo:
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute,
But think upon it still, jo;
That gin the lassie winna do't,
Ye'll fin' anither will, jo.

BONNY PEG-A-RAMSAY.

Tune-"Cauld is the e'enin' blast.

CAULD is the e'enin' blast

O' Boreas o'er the pool;

And dawin' it is dreary

When birks are bare at Yule.

Oh, cauld blaws the e'enin' blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.

Ne'er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o'er the hill,
But bonny Peg-a-Ramsay
Gat grist to her mill.

HEE BALOU!

Tune-"The Highland Balou."

SPEAKING of this song, Cromek says "The time when the moss-troopers and cattle-drivers on the Borders began their nightly depredations was the first Michaelmas moon. Cattle-stealing formerly was a mere foraging expedition; and it has been remarked that many of the best families in the north can trace their descent from the daring sons of the mountains. The produce (by way of dowry to a laird's daughter) of a Michaelmas moon is proverbial; and by the aid of Lochiel's lanthorn (the moon) these exploits were the most desirable things imaginable. In the 'Hee Balou' we see one of those heroes in the cradle."

1 Rebuke.

HEE Balou ! 2
my sweet wee Donald,
Picture o' the great Clanronald;

2 A cradle-lullaby phrase used by nurses.

Their capon craws, and queer ha ha's,
They made our lugs1 grow eerie,2 O
The hungry bike3 did scrape and pike,*
Till we were wae and weary, O;
But a royal ghaist," wha ance was cased
A prisoner aughteen year awa',
He fired a fiddler in the north
That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

1 Ears.

2 Weary.

CASSILLIS' BANKS.

Tune-Unknown.

Now bank and brae are claithed in green,
And scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring;
By Girvan's fairy-haunted stream

The birdies flit on wanton wing.
To Cassillis' banks, when e'ening fa's,
There, wi' my Mary, let me flee,
There catch her ilka glance of love,
The bonny blink o' Mary's ee!