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She leugh, and bade me let her hame,

Her mither sair wad flyte and scauld, But e'er I quat my bonnie Bess, Anither tale, I trow, she tauld.

Blythely, fc.

On Tysday night, fu' weel I wat,

Wi' hinney words I row'd my tongue, Brought down my plaid and steively stak Intil my neive a hazel rung.

Blythely, &c.

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O say, ye haly minstrel band,

Wha saw the saft, the silken hour, Tho' joys celestial on ye wait, Say, was your bliss mair chastely pure ?

Blythely, fc.

But fare ye weel, my bonnie lass,

At e'en ye maunna look for me, And fare ye weel, auld mither yirth, Thy hills I never mair will see.

Blythely, fc.

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She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,

And lovers around her are sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,

For her heart in his grave is lying !

She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,

Every note which he lov'd awaking.–
Ah! little they think, who delight in het strains,

How the heart of the minstrel is breaking !

He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,

They were all that to life had eniwin'd him, Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,

Nor long will his love stay behind him!

Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,

When they promise a glorious morrow; They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,

From her own loved island of sorrow!

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* If we are correct in our supposition, this song comes from one who has already favoured us with a variety of communications. In looking over these, We were particularly struck with the versatility of our author's genius, and the happy mode of expression which he has uniformly adopted. His composi. tions exbibit to us a mind easily affected by the constant vicissitude both of enjoyment and of hope. They are sometimes solemnized by indulging in mournful and tender strains, at other times, they abound in all the gaiety of the most playful fancy. In wliatever way, however, he employs his muse, It is still with the greatest advantage to his subject.

It will, no doubt, be objected to us here, that the good judgement of the author does not appear conspicuous in this song. It may be said that the air and the words do not agree together. This was an objection which the author informs us he himself had anticipated. He had always observed (he Kays) that this air bad been generally appropriated by poets to the celebration * martial or harsh sounding strains, and that so far as he knew, it had bever been adapted with words like the present. He was always, however,

opinion, that this might be very properly attempted, and accordingly in the of his leisure moments, and for his own amusement, he composed these

Now the primrose, sweetest flower!
First to own the genial power,
Of brighter sun and warmer shower,

Blooms in virgin modesty.

Here the gowan lifts its head,
As if afraid some foot would tread
Back into its native bed,

All its lowly finery.
There again the heath-bell blue,
Forms its cup of azure hue,
As if to sip the silver dew

That falls at eve refreshingly.

And when evening comes so still, How sweet to hear, from yonder hill, The gurgling sound of rapid rill

Fall on the ear harmoniously. How sweet to hear, from yonder grove, The mavis tune his note to love, While, bless'd with thee, I fondly rove

Along the glen so cheerily.

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