THE FAREWELL.

TUNE-It was a' for our rightfu' king.

There is some doubt as to the authorship of this song-Hogg attributes it to Captain Ogilvie, who was killed in 1695; but there is reason to believe that it was an old song revived by Burns for Johnson's Museum.

Ir was a' for our rightfu' king
We left fair Scotland's strand;
It was a' for our rightfu' king
We e'er saw Irish land,
My dear;

We e'er saw Irish land.

He turn'd him right, and round about,
Upon the Irish shore;

And gae his bridle-reins a shake,

With adieu for evermore,

My dear;

With adieu for evermore.

When day is gane, and night is come,
And a' folk bound to sleep;

I think on him that's far awa',
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear;

The lee-lang night, and weep.

OH, STEER HER UP.

From an old song of the same name.

TUNE-Oh, steer her up, and haud her gaun.

Он, steer her up and haud her gaun,
Her mother's at the mill, jo;
And gin she winna take a man,
E'en let her take her will, jo;
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss,
And ca' another gill, jo,
And gin she take the thing amiss,
E'en let her flyte her fill, jo.

Oh, steer her up, and be na blate,
An' gin she take it ill, jo,
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate,
And time nae longer spill, jo:
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebute,
But think upon it still, jo;

Then gin the lassie winna do 't,

Ye 'll fin' anither will, jo.

THE FÊTE CHAMPÊTRE.

On the occasion of a Fête Champêtre, given by Mr. Cunninghame, of Enterkin, on his coming to his estates-and from its novelty, it was supposed he had an intention of becoming a candidate for the representation of his county.

TUNE-Killiecrankie.

Он, wha will to Saint Stephen's house,
To do our errands there, man?
Oh, wha will to Saint Stephen's house,
O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man-o'-law?
Or will we send a sodger?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'
The meikle Ursa-Major?

Come, will ye court a noble lord,
Or buy a score o' lairds, man?
For worth and honor pawn their word,
Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man?

Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter;

Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste,
He gies a Fête Champêtre.

When Love and Beauty heard the news,
The gay green woods amang, man;
Where gathering flowers and busking bowers
They heard the blackbird's sang, man,
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss,

Sir Politics to fetter,

As theirs alone, the patent-bliss,
To hold a Fête Champêtre.

Then mounted Mirth, on gleesome wing,
O'er hill and dale she flew, man:
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man:
She summon'd every social sprite,
That sports by wood or water,
On the bonny banks of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fête Champêtre.

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew,
Were bound to stakes like kye, man;
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu',
Clamb up the starry sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,
Or down the current shatter;
The western breeze steals through the trees
To view this Fête Champêtre.

How many a robe sae gaily floats!
What sparkling jewels glance, man!
To Harmony's enchanting notes,
As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,
Like Paradise did glitter,
When angels met, at Adam's yett,
To hold their Fête Champêtre.
When Politics came there, to mix
And make his ether-stane, man!
He circled round the magic ground,
But entrance found he nane, man:

He blush'd for shame, he quat his name,
Forswore 't, every letter,

Wi' humble prayer to join and share
The festive Fête Champêtre.

THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT.

This is no exaggerated picture of the desolation which was commanded and sanctioned by the Duke of Cumberland in putting down the rebellion in 1745.

О! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Without a penny in my purse,

To buy a meal to me.

It was na sae in the Highland hills,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!

Nae woman in the country wide
Sae happy was as me.

For then I had a score o' kye,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Feeding on yon hills so high,
And giving milk to me.

And there I had threescore o' yowes,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!
Skipping on yon bonnie knowes,
And casting woo' to me.

I was the happiest of a' the clan,
Sair, sair may I repine;
For Donald was the brawest lad,
And Donald he was mine.

Till Charlie Stuart cam' at last,
Sae far to set us free;

My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell,

Right to the wrang did yield:

My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden's field.

Oh! I am come to the low countrie,
Och-on, och-on, och-rie!

Nae woman in the world wide

Sae wretched now as me.

PEG-A-RAMSEY.

The old song of this name was a very famous amatory son.
TUNE-Cauld is the e'ening blast.

CAULD is the e'enin' blast
O' Boreas o'er the pool,
And dawin' it is dreary

When birks are bare at Yule.

Oh bitter blaws the e'enin' blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.

Ne'er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o'er the hill,
But a bonnie Peg-a-Ramsey
Gat grist to her mill.

THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS.

An unfinished sketch.

THERE was a bonnie lass,
And a bonnie, bonnie lass,

And she lo'ed her bonnie laddie dear;

Till war's loud alarms,

Tore her laddie frae her arms,

Wi' mony a sigh and tear.

Over sea, over shore,

Where the cannons loudly roar,

He still was a stranger to fear:
And nocht could him quell,
Or his bosom assail,

But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear.