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Oh! baneful cause!-oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!

The sons against their fathers stood;
The parent shed his childrens' blood!
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel.

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The black wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend;
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!


I HAVE heard a concluding verse sung to these words-it is,

An' ay she came at e'enin fa',

Amang the yellow broom, sae eerie,
To seek the snood o' silk she tint ;-
She fan na it, but gat her dearie.

Braw, braw lads of Galla-water;
O, braw lads of Galla-water!
I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee,
And follow my love thro' the water.

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,
Sae bonny blue her een, my dearie;
Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou',
The mair I kiss, she's ay my dearie.

O'er yon bank, and o'er yon brae,
O'er yon moss amang the heather;

I'll kilt my coat aboon my knee,

And follow my true love thro' the water.

Down amang the broom, the broom,
Down amang the broom, my dearie;
The lassie lost a silken snood,

That cost her mony a blirt and blearie.


DR. Walker, who was Minister at Moffat in 1772, and is now (1791) Professor of Natural History, in the University of Edinburgh, told Mr. Riddel the following anecdote concerning this air. -He said that some gentlemen, riding a few years ago through Liddesdale, stopped at a hamlet consisting of a few houses, called Mosspaul; when they were struck with this tune, which an old woman, spinning on a rock, at her door, was singing.—Al she could tell concerning it was, that she was taught it when a child, and it was called, What will I do gin my Hoggie die. No person, except a few females at Mosspaul, knew this fine old tune; which in all probability, would have been lost, had not one

* Hoggie, a young sheep, before it has lost its first fleece, termed a Harvest Hog, from being smeared at the end of harvest, when it ceases to be called a lamb.-Jamieson.

of the gentlemen, who happened to have a flute with him, taken it down.

What will I do gin my hoggie die?
My joy, my pride, my hoggie;
My only beast, I had nae mae,
And wow! but I was vogie.

The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld,
Me and my faithfu' doggie;

We heard nought but the roaring linn,
Amang the braes sae scroggie.

But the houlet cry'd frae the castle wa',
The blitter frae the boggie,

The tod reply'd upon the hill;
I trembled for my hoggie.

When day did daw, and cocks did craw,

The morning it was foggie;

An unco' tyke lap o'er the dyke,

And maist has killed my hoggie.

* These words are certainly by Burns, though the Editor has heard them attributed to another writer, whose name he has forgotten. It is a silly subject treated sublimely. It has much of the fervour of the "Vision."

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THESE two stanzas I composed when I was seventeen, and are among the oldest of my printed pieces.

I dream'd I lay where flowers were springing,

Gaily in the sunny beam;

List'ning to the wild birds singing,

By a falling, chrystal stream:

Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;

Trees with aged arms were warring,
O'er the swelling, drumlie wave.
Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoy'd;

But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,
A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd.

Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me,

She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill;
Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me,

I bear a heart shall support me still.

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