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perhaps puzzled and misled the noble poet. In his poem he renders the mistake incurable, where he sings of “ Balgonie's brig's black wall.”



By yon castle wa', at the close o' the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray ;
And as he was singing, the tears they down came,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars :
We darena weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yird;
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moments my words are the same,
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame

This very beautiful song is from the pen of Burns, inspired in some small degree by an old fragment of the same character and on the same subject. It first appeared in Johnson's Musical Museum. The last four lines of the first verse belong to the old fragment. The subdued and sedate sorrow of the old man's lamentation is very touching the love for his lost children, . and for his ancient line of kings, lends an interest national and domestic, which is not surpassed in any of the songs of that unhappy cause.


0, Derwentwater's a bonnie lord,

He wears gowd in his hair,
And glenting is his hawking e'e

Wi' kind love dwelling there.
Yestrecn he came to our lord's yett,

And loud loud could he ca',
Rise up, rise up, for good King James,

And buckle, and come awa.

Our ladie held by her gude lord,

Wi' weel love-locket hands;
But when young Derwentwater came,

She loos'd the snawy bands.

And when young Derwentwater kneelid,

My gentle fair ladie !
The tears gave way to the glow o' luve

In our gude ladie's e'e.

I will think me on this bonnie ring,

And on this snawy hand,
When on the helmy ridge o' weir

Comes down my burly brand.
And I will think on thae links o' gowd

Which ring thy bright blue een,
When I wipe off the gore o weir,

And owre my braid sword lean.

O never a word our ladie spake,

As he press'd her snawy hand;
And never a word our ladie spake,

As her jimpy waist he spann'd;
But, O my Derwentwater ! she sighed,

When his glowing lips she fand.

He has drapp'd frae his hand the tassel o' gowd

Which knots his gude weir-glove,
And he has drapp'd a spark frae his een

Come down, come down, our gude lord says,

Come down, my fair ladie ;
O dinna young Lord Derwent stop,

The morning sun is hie.

gars our ladie love.

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•1}} And high high raise the morning sun, 45°***:'

Wi' front o'ruddie blude: i 2011
Thy harlot front, frae the white curtain, jud
Betokens naething gude.

109 Our ladie look'd frae the turret top

DATOI As lang as she could see ;

My out And every sigh for her gude lord,

For Derwent there were three.

I believe there is no traditional testimony to support the surmise of the poet, that the wife of one of the Jacobite chiefs had a criminal regard for the unfortunate Earl of Derwentwater. He was a young and brave and generous nobleman, and his fate was vehemently lamented in the north of England. The aurora borealis, which appeared then for the first time, and shone remarkably vivid on the night of his execution, is still known in the north by the name of Lord Derwentwater's lights. A very beautiful song is popularly known by the title of “ Lord Derwentwater's good night.”

And fare thee well, my


gray steed,
That carried me ay sae free,
I wish I had been asleep in my bed,

The last time I mounted thee :
The warning bell now bids me cease,

My trouble’s nearly o'er ;
Yon sun now rising from the sea

Shall rise on me no more.

Fifteen hundred braver mên never were led to battle than those whom Derwentwater conducted to Preston : but the senses of the leaders seemed bewildered and confounded, and they allowed themselves to be surrounded and manacled, and conducted to the axe and the gibbet without murmur or resistance.


Our thistles flourish'd fresh and fair,

And bonny bloom'd our roses,
But whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.
Awa whigs, awa,

Awa whigs, awa;
Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons,

Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.

Our sad decay in church and state

Surpasses my descriving ;
The whigs came o'er us for a curse,

And we have done wi' thriving.

A foreign whiggish loon brought seeds,

In Scottish yird to cover ;
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,

And pack him to Hanover.

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