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His bonnet stood ay fou round on his brow;
His auld ane looks ay as well as some's new:
But now he lets't wear ony gate it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn-bing.
But now he, &c.

And now he gaes' dandering** about the dykes,
And a' he dow do is to hund the tykes :
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee,
And were na my heart light, I wad die.
The live-lang, &c.

Were I young for thee, as I hae been,

We shou'd hae been galloping down on yon green, And linking it on the lily-white lee;

And wow gin I were but young for thee!

And linking, &c.

* So Lord Hailes; Ramsay and others read 'drooping.'


THIS song

is the composition of Balloon Tytler.


THIS air is the composition of one of the worthiest and best-hearted men living-Allan Masterton, schoolmaster in Edinburgh. As he and I were both sprouts of jacobitism, we agreed to dedicate the words and air to that cause.

To tell the matter of fact, except when my passions were heated by some accidental cause, my jacobitism was merely by way of vive la bagatelle.


Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling
Howling tempests o'er me rave!

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave!

Crystal streamlets gently flowing,
Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes softly blowing,

Suit not my distracted mind.

Supposed to mean James, Viscount Strathallan, whose father, Viscount William, was killed at the battle of Culloden. He escaped to France.

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In the cause of right engaged,
Wrongs injurious to redress;
Honour's war we strongly waged,

But the heavens deny'd success,

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world's all before us—
But a world without a friend!


THE chorus of this is old; the two stanzas are


Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early;

When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw,
I'm sure it's winter fairly,

Cold blaws the wind frae east to west,
The drift is driving sairly;

Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The birds sit chittering in the thorn,
A' day they fare but sparely;
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn,
I'm sure it's winter fairly.
Up in the morning, &c.


DR. Blacklock told me that Smollet, who was at bottom a great jacobite, composed these beautiful and pathetic verses on the infamous depredations of the Duke of Cumberland, after the battle of Culloden.

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground.
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoaky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty,

The wretched owner sees, afar,
His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks:
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain;
Thy infants perish on the plain,

What boots it then, in ev'ry clime,
Thro' the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze;
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke:
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil
rage and rancour fell,

The rural pipe and merry lay, `
No more shall cheer the happy day :
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:

No strains, but those of sorrow, flow,
And nought be heard but sounds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the slain,
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

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