Snaw-white stockins on his legs,
And siller buckles glancin';
A gude blue bonnet on his head-
And O but he was handsome!

With fine silks from the Indies,
With pepper, silk, and blue;
Yet all these ships for bread depend,
Upon the painful plough.

Tea, pepper, and tobacco,
That's useful in their kind,
Are all brought from the Indies,
By virtue of the wind;
But yet the men that bring them,
Will own to what is true,
They cannot sail the ocean,
Without help of the plough.

They must have beer and biscuit,
Rice-pudding, flour, and pease,

To feed the jovial sailors,

Upon the roaring seas; Likewise they must have cables, With ropes and sails anew, And things like those we cannot have, But by the painful plough.

The gentry of Great Britain,

With Ireland, France, and Spain,

The Turk and his seraglio,

And all his gorgeous train;

And every new plantation,

With Pagan, Turk, and Jew,

There's none of them can live without The virtue of the plough.

Nor can our own tradesmen live,

If we consider right,

The mason, smith, and weaver,
The tailor, and the wright;
The miller has no corn to grind,
Nor could he take his due,
But him and thousands you will find
Depend upon the plough.

Commend me to the barn-yard,

And the corn-mou, man;

I never gat my coggie fou,
Till I met wi' the ploughman.

You see the curious baker,
Who daily doth supply
Our cities with great plenty,

Of bread both wheat and rye,
Appearing like white angels,
When in their common hue,
Yet they can get no flour to bake,
Without help of the plough.

The maltster and the ale-wives,
On others do depend;
Wer't not such occupations,
Excisemen would not fend;
But if we had not maltsters,
No ale our wives could brew,
Yet none of all those callings
Can live without the plough.

But here's a great vexation,

Which makes our spirits fail,
A heavy new taxation

Come on our wives sell ale,
So thin it only makes us piss,
I mean the ale they brew,
'Tis weak enough, but yet for this,
We need not blame the plough.

For we have malt and barley,
With plenty of each grain,
And if our ale be weakly,

The less it harms our brain;
We'll get no beef or cheese,

And clothes we'll get but few,
So we must learn to be content,
With what springs from the plough.

Such things are now become so dear,
Beef, mutton, wool, and cheese,
Great men for such commodities,

Can just have what they please;

Up wi' my ploughman lad,

And hey my merry ploughman
Of a' the trades that I do ken,

Commend me to the ploughman.

The poor no meat nor clothes,
Nor any thing that's new,
For every thing gives double price,
But what springs from the plough.

We hear from distant nations,
Of wars by land and sea,
Still making preparations,
Striving for monarchy,

Still making new encroachments
Upon each other's due,

While we are glad to live in peace,

With what springs from the plough.

Three mighty powers in Europe,
Against us do advance,
Led by the crafty motions of
That restless fox of France;
May heaven send assistance,

To quell that restless crew,

And us the true enjoyment

Of what springs from the plough.

May heaven send prosperity,

And long life to our king,

For we've had many peaceful days,
And plenty in his reign;

And may our foes, by George's sword,

Be glad for peace to sue,

And let us say with one accord,
God speed the painful plough.

I hope there's none offended
At me for singing this,
For it was not intended

For to be ta'en amiss;

If ye consider rightly,

You'll say 'tis all but true,

All trades that I have mentioned,

Live by the painful plough.

Sixty years ago the length of a song seems to have been an essential recommendation, nowadays it is the very reverse.-M.

TO THEE, LOVED NITH.

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains,
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd,
Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe,
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd.-

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes,
Though mem'ry there my bosom tear;
For there he rov'd that brake my heart,
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear!

The first eight lines are copied verbatim from Herd's Collection, vol. ii. p. 205. The sentiments in the second eight lines are somewhat akin to those expressed in Herd's version.—M.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.*

Tune-" Failte na Miosg."

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

In the notes to Johnson's Museum on this song, Burns says, "The first half-stanza is old; the rest mine." Had he said the last half-stanza was old, as well as the first, he would have told no more than the truth. Allan Cunningham says, "Of the old song no one has given specimens." Not only a specimen of this excellent old song has been given, but the whole complete, in the "Ancient Ballads and Songs of the North of Scotland," published half a dozen years ago. But for the sake of the readers of

Burns, who, like my friend Allan, have not seen it, I do myself the pleasure of inserting it here, accompanied with the explanatory note appended to it :

O Donaldie, Donaldie, where hae you been?

A hawking and hunting,-go make my bed clean;
Gae make my bed clean, and stir up the strae,

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I gae.

Let's drink and gae hame, boys, let's drink and gae hame,

If we stay ony langer we'll get a bad name;

We'll get a bad name, and we'll fill oursell's fou,
And the lang woods o' Derry are ill to gae thro'.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and catching the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

O bonny Portmore, ye shine where you charm,
The more I think on you, the more my heart warms;

When I look from you, my heart it is sore,

When I mind upon Valianty, and on Portmore.