OUT-OVER THE FORTH, ETC.

The second of the following verses was first published by Currie, the first by Cromek. United, they make an exquisite little song.

OUT-OVER the Forth I look to the north,

But what is the north and its Highlands to me?
The south nor the east give ease to my breast,
The far foreign land nor the wild rolling sea.

But I look to the west, when I gae to rest,

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be, For far in the west lives he I lo'e best,`

The lad that is dear to my babie and me.

BY YON CASTLE WA', ETC.

Written in imitation of an old Jacobite song, of which the following are tws iines

"My lord's lost his land, and my lady her name,

There 'll never be right till Jamie comes hame."

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 fast 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 dare na 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;1
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 sair bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown:
But till my last moment my words are the same-
There 'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

1 Earth.-2 Lost.-3 Children.

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

"When Prince Charles Stuart saw that utter ruin had fallen on all those whe loved him and fought for him-that the axe and the cord were busy with their persons, and that their wives and children were driven desolate, he is supposed by Burns to have given utterance to his feelings in this Lament."—Allan Cunningham.

TUNE-Captain O'Kaine.

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning;
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale;
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flowers gayly springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dared, could it merit their malice,
A king and a father to place on his throne?
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.

But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn;
Your deeds proved so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?

THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE, Erc.

"Love of country and domestic affection have combined to endear this song to every bosom. It was written in honor of Mrs. Burns."-Allan Cunningham.

TUNE-Humors of Glen.

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume,
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,1
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom:
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan2 lurk lowly unseen:
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

1 Fern.-2 The wild daisy

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,

What are they? the haunt o' the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.

CALEDONIA.

This excellent national song was first published by Dr. Currie. It has never become, popular, however. The words and the tune are by no means a very suitable pair.

TUNE-The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.

THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young,
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line,
From some of your northern deities sprung,

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain,

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledged her their godheads to warrant it good.

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war,

The pride of her kindred, the heroine grew:
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore-
"Whoe'er shall provoke thee, the encounter shall
rue!"

With tillage or pasture at times she would sport,
To feed her fair flocks by her 'green rustling corn;
But chiefly the woods were her favorite resort;
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn.

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand:1
Repeated, successive, for many long years,

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land;

1 The Romans

Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry,
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside:
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly,
The daring invaders they fled or they died.
The fell harpy-raven took wing from the north,
The scourge of the seas and the dread of the shore;'
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore;2
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd,
No arts could appease them, no arms could repel;
But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd,

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.3
The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose,
With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife;
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose,
And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life:1
The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Oft prowling, ensanguined the Tweed's silver flood; But taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd and free,
Her bright course of glory forever shall run:
For brave Caledonia immortal must be;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose,

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse;

Then ergo she'll match them, and match them
always."

1 The Saxons.-2 The Danes.-3 The two famous battles in which the Danes or Norwegians were defeated.-4 The Highlanders of the Isles.

5 This singular figure of poetry refers to the famous proposition of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the two other sides.

39

THE WHISTLE.

"As the authentic prose history of the Whistle is curious," says Burns, "I shall here give it.

"In the train of Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland with our James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He had a little ebony whistle, which, at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, everybody else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of victory. The Dane produced credentials of his victories, without a single defeat, at the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in Germany and challenged the Scots bacchanalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, or else of acknowledging their inferiority.

"After many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy baronet of that name; who, after three days' and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian under the table,

'And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.’

"Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before-mentioned, afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddell of Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir Walter's.

"On Friday the 16th of October, 1790, at Friars-Carse, the whistle was once more contended for, as related in the ballad, by the present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton; Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal descendant and representative of Walter Riddel, who won the whistle, and in whose family it had continued; and Alexander Fergusson, Esq., of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the great Sir Robert; which last gentleman carried off the hard-won honors of the field."

I SING of a whistle, a whistle of worth,

I sing of a whistle, the pride of the North,

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king,
And long with this whistle all Scotland shall ring.

Old Loda,' still rueing the arm of Fingal,
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall-
"This whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get o'er,
And drink them to hell, sir! or ne'er see me more!"

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell,
What champions ventured, what champions fell;
The son of great Loda was conqueror still,
And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill.

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur,'
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war,
He drank his poor godship as deep as the sea,
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he.

See Ossian's Caric-Thura.-2 Of a mountainous and rocky district.