MCPHERSON'S FAREWEL.

FAREWEL ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
McPherson's time will not be long,

On yonder gallows tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he';

He play'd a spring and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?—
On mony a bloody plain

I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!

Sae rantingly, &c.

Untie these bands from off my hands,*

And bring to me my sword;
And there's no a man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.

Sae rantingly, &c.

I've

* See the 2d verse of the ballad of Hughie Graham,

p. 287.

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:

It burns my heart I must depart
And not avenged be.

Sae rantingly, &c.

Now farewel light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!
May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
Sae rantingly, &c.

SONG.

HERE'S, a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be of care, man.
Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:-
Believe me, happiness is shy,

And comes not ay when sought, man.

SONG.

SONG.

TUNE-Braes o' Balquhidder.

I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again,
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

My bonie Peggy Alison!

ILK care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!

I'll kiss thee, &c.

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O;
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
I'll kiss thee, &c.

And by thy e'en, sae bonie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever, O!—
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!

I'll kiss thee, &c.

SONG.

SONG.*

TUNE-If he be a Butcher neat and trim.

ON Cessnock banks there lives a lass,
Could I describe her shape and mien;
The graces of her weelfar'd face,

And the glancin' of her sparklin' e'en.

She's fresher than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

She's stately like yon youthful ash,
That grows the cowslip braes between,
And shoots its head above each bush;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

She's

* This song was an early production. It was recovered by the Editor from the oral communication of a lady residing at Glasgow, whom the Bard in early life affectionately admired.

She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn ;

An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

Her looks are like the sportive lamb,
When flow'ry May adorns the scene,
That wantons round its bleating dam;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

Her hair is like the curling mist

That shades the mountain-side`at e'en,
When flow'r-reviving rains are past;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

Her forehead's like the show'ry bow,
When shining sunbeams intervene
And gild the distant mountain's brow;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush
That sings in Cessnock banks unseen,
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

Her lips are like the cherries ripe,

That sunny walls from Boreas screen, They tempt the taste and charm the sight; An' she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

Her