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'We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,
'We'll dance and sing and rejoice, man;
And mony thanks to the muckle black Deil,
'That danc'd awa wi' the' Exciseman.

'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
'There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;
'But the ae best dance e'er cam to our lan',

'Was-the Deil's awa wi' the' Exciseman.
"We'll mak our maut, &c.'

1

SONG.

POWERS Celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care:
Let her form sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own;

Let my Mary's kindred spirit

Draw your choicest influence down.

Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Sooth her bosom into rest.

Guardian angels, O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam;

To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home.*

HUNTING SONG.

I RED YOU BEWARE AT THE HUNTING.

THE heather was blooming, the meadows were

mawn,

Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn,
O'er moors and o'er mosses and mony a glen,
At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen.

I red you beware at the hunting, young men;
I red you beware at the hunting, young men ;
Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring,
But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen.

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells,

Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells ; Her plumage outlustred the pride o' the spring, And O! as she wantoned gay on the wing.

I red, &c.

Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill; In spite at her plumage he tried his skill;

* Probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of the Poet's departure to the West Indies.

Ile levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the braeHis rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she

lay,

I red, &c.

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill;
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill;
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight,
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.-
I red, &c.

YOUNG PEGGY.

YOUNG Peggy blooms our boniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning ;
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.

Her lips more than the cherries bright,
A richer die has grac'd them,
They charm the' admiring gazer's sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild,
When feather'd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming Spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage Winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain
Her winning powers to lessen :
And fretful envy grins in vain,
The poison'd tooth to fasten.

Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,
From ev'ry ill defend her;
Inspire the highly favour'd youth
The destinies intend her;

Still fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom ;
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.*

SONG.

Tune, The King of France, he rade a Race.'

AMANG the trees where humming bees
At buds and flowers were hinging, O
Auld Caledon drew out her drone,
And to her pipe was singing; O

This was one of the poet's earliest compositions. It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before his first publication. VOL. XXXIX.

'Twas Pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels,
She dirl❜d them aff, fu' clearly, O
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels,
That dang her tapsalteerie, O—

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's,
They made our lugs grow eerie, O
The hungry bike did scrape and pike
Till we ware wae and weary; 0—
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd
A prisoner aughteen year awa,
He fir'd a fiddler in the North
That dang them tapsalteerie, O.

SONG.-FRAGMENT.

Tune, John Anderson my Jo.'

ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Aire ran by before me,

And bicker'd to the seas;

A cushatt crowded o'er me

That echoed through the braes.

• Pibroch-A Highland war song, adapted to the bagpipe. †The dove, or wild pigeon.

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