We liv'd full one-and-twenty years
A man and wife together;

At length from me her course she steer'd,

And gone I know not whither :

Would I could guess, I do profess,

I speak, and do not flatter,

* This humorous and lively lyric was first printed in Johnson 3 Scots Musical Museum.-M.

For why, methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.

THE UNION.*

Tune-"Such a parcel of rogues in a nation."

FAREWEEL to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel even to the Scottish name,
Sae fam'd in martial story!
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,

To mark where England's province stands
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

What force or guile could not subdue,
Through many warlike ages,

Is wrought now by a coward few,

For hireling traitors' wages.

* This song has not hitherto appeared in any collection of the poetry of Burns. It relates to an event which he never mentioned without a feeling of humiliation. "Alas!" he exclaimed, "have I often said to myself, what are all the advantages which my country reaps from the Union that can counterbalance the annihilation of her independence, and even her very name? Nothing can reconcile me to the terms, English ambassador, "English court,'" &c.

The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station,

But English gold has been our bane :
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

O would, or I had seen the day
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
But pith and power, till my last hour

I'll mak this declaration,

We're bought and sold for English gold:
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

DOES HAUGHTY GAUL INVASION THREAT ?*

Tune "Push about the jorum."

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the louns beware, Sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall run to Corsincon,t
And Criffelt sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!

O let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided;
Till slap come in an unco loun,
And wi' a rung decide it.

* Burns was a member of the Dumfries Volunteers, to stimulate whose patriotism these excellent verses were written.-M. A high hill at the source of the Nith.

A mountain at the mouth of the same river.

Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;

For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a claut may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

Our fathers' blude the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By Heaven the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be damn'd together!

Who will not sing "God save the king,"
Shall hang as high's the steeple;
But while we sing "God save the king,"
We'll ne'er forget the people.

SAE FAR AWA.*

Tune-"Dalkeith Maiden Bridge."

O, SAD and heavy should I part,
But for her sake sae far awa;
Unknowing what my way may thwart,
My native land sae far awa.

*This is one of the many songs which Burns wrote for the Museum. It is somewhat curious that the burden of the Scottish bard's song is the same as that of the lay of the Provençal poet and warrior, Geoffrey Rudell.-M.

Thou that of a' things Maker art,
That form'd this fair sae far awa,
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start
At this my way sae far awa.

How true is love to pure desert,
So love to her, sae far awa:

And nocht can heal my bosom's smart,
While, oh! she is sae far awa.
Nane other love, nane other dart,
I feel but her's, sae far awa;
But fairer never touch'd a heart
Than her's the fair sae far awa.

THE CARDIN' O'T.*

Tune-"Salt-fish and dumplings."

I coFT a stane o' haslock woo',
To make a wat to Johnny o't;
For Johnny is my only jo,
I loe him best of ony yet.

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,

The tailor staw the lynin o't.

For though his locks be lyart gray,
And though his brow be beld aboon,

Yet I hae seen him on a day,

The pride of a' the parishen.

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't,
The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't;
When ilka ell cost me a groat,

The tailor staw the lynin o't.

This is the rifacciemento of an old song in which Burns has displayed his usual skill.-M.