The dinner, the piper, and priest shall be ready,
And I'm grown dowy with lying my lane;
Away then, leave baith minny and dady,
And try with me the Bob of Dumblaue.

LOCHABER NO MORE.

Tune" Lochaber no more."

FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll may be return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed, they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on weir,
Tho' bore on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
May be to return to Lochaber no more.

Tho' hurricanes rise, and rise ev'ry wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind.

Tho' loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd, By ease that's inglorious, no fame can be gain'd. And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse, Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

THE LOWLANDS OF HOLLAND ANOTHER VERSION.

THE luve that I hae chosen

I'll therewith be content;
The saut sea will be frozen
Before that I repent ;
Repent it will I never
Until the day I die,
Though the Lowlands of Holland
Hae twined my love and me.

My luve lies in the saut sea,

And I am on the side;

Enough to break a young thing's heart
Wha lately was a bride-
Wha lately was a happy bride,

And pleasure in her ee;
But the Lowlands of Holland

Hae twined my love and me.

Oh! Holland is a barren place,

In it there grows nae grain,
Nor ony habitation

Wherein for to remain ;
But the sugar canes are plenty,

And the wine draps frae the tree; But the Lowlands of Holland

Hae twined my love and me.

My love he built a bonnie ship,
And sent her to the sea,
Wi' seven score guid mariners

To bear her companie.
Three score to the bottom gaed,

And three score died at sea; And the Lowlands of Holland Hae twined my love and me.

JOCKY SAID TO JEANY.

JOCKY said to Jeany, Jeany, wilt thou do't?
Ne'er a fit, quo' Jeany, for my tocher-good,
For my tocher-good, I winna marry thee.
E'ens ye like, quo' Jockey, ye may let it be.

I hae gowd and gear, I hae land enough,
I hae seven good owsen ganging in a pleugh,
Ganging in a pleugh, and linking o'er the lee,
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be.

I hae a good ha' house, a barn and a byre,
A stack afore the door, I'll make a rantin fire,
I'll make a rantin fire, and merry shall we be:
And gin ye winna tak me, I can let ye be.

Jeany said to Jocky, Gin ye winna tell,
Ye shall be the lad, I'll be the lass mysell.
Ye're a bonny lad, and I'm a lassie free,
Ye're welcomer to tak me than to let me be.

JENNY DANG THE WEAVER JENNY lap, and Jenny flang,

Jenny dang the weaver;
The piper played as Jenny sprang,
An' aye she dang the weaver.

As I cam in by Fisherrow,
Musselburgh was near me,
I threw aff the mussel-pock,

And courtit wi' my deerie.

Had Jenny's apron bidden down

The kirk wad ne'er hae ken'd it; But now the word 's gane thro' the town, The devil canna mend it,

Jenny lap, and Jenny flang,

Jenny dang the weaver;

The piper played as Jenny sprang, And aye she dang the weaver.

Come up amang our Highland hills,

Thou wee, wee German lairdie,
And see the Stuart's lang-kail thrive
We dibbled in our yardie:
And if a stock ye dare to pu',
Or haud the yoking o' a plough,
We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou',
Thou wee bit German lairdie.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
Nae fitting for a yardie;
And our Norland thistles winna pu',
Thou wee bit German lairdie:
And we've the trenching blades o' weir,
Wad prune ye o' your German gear-

Thou feckless German lairdie!

188

Tune" The Peacock."

ADIEU! a heart-warm fond adieu! Dear brothers of the mystic tie! Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few, Companions of my social joy! Though I to foreign lands must hie, Pursuing Fortune's sliddry ba', With melting heart, and brimful eye, I'll mind you still, though far awa'.

Oft have I met your social band,

And spent the cheerful festive night; Oft, honour'd with supreme command, Presided o'er the sons of light; And by that hieroglyphic bright,

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! Strong memory on my heart shall write Those happy scenes when far awa!

May freedom, harmony, and love,
Unite you in the grand design,
Beneath the Omniscient Eye above,
The glorious architect divine!
That you may keep th' unerring line,
Still rising by the plummet's law,
Till order bright completely shine-

Shall be my prayer when far awa.

And you, farewell! whose merits claim,
Justly, that highest badge to wear!
Heaven bless your honour'd, noble name,
To masonry and Scotia dear!
A last request permit me here,
When yearly ye assemble a';
One round, I ask it with a tear,

To him, the bard, that's far awa.*

AE FOND KISS.

A fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae farewell, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
War in sighs and groans I'll wage thee.

Written as a sort of farewell to the Masonic companions of his youth, when the poet was on the point

of leaving Scotland for Jamaica, 1786, -

While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame thy partial fancy,
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her, was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly;
Never met or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT.

Tune--" For a' that, and a' that.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by ;
We daur be puir for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure, and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea-stamp-
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear boddin-grey, and a' that?

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;

A man's a man for a' that;

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that,

The honest man, though e'er sae puir,
Le king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,

His ribbon, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,
While dying raptures, in her arms,
I give and take with Anna.

Awa, thou flaunting god of day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, night,
Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a';
And bring au angel pen to write
-My transports with my Anna.

ANNIE.

Tune-" Allan Water."

I WALKED out with the Museum in my hand, and turning up Allan Water, the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, so I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure.

By Allan stream I chanced to rove,

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi, The winds were whisp'ring through the grove, The yellow corn was waving ready : I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthful pleasures many; And aye the wild-wood echoes tangO, dearly do I love thee, Annie!

O, happy be the woodbine bower;
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I meet my dearie! Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever! While many a kiss the seal impress'd,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae;
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheerie, through her short'ning day,
Is Autumn in her weeds of yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, Or through each nerve the rapture dart, Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

This song, like "Highland Mary," affords a strong proof of the power which poetry possesses of raising and subliming objects. Highland Mary was the dairymaid of Coilsfield; Anna is said to have been some thing meaner. The poet sure was in a fine phrenzy rolling when he said, "I think this is the best lovesong I ever wrote."