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The long-hous'd fishermen beholds with joy,
The well known signals of his rough employ;
And, as he bears his nets and oars along,
Thus hails the welcome season with a song.


The Osprey sails above the sound;

The geese are gonethe gulls are flying;
The herring shoals swarm thick around,
The nets are launch’d-the boats are plying;

Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep,

Raise high the song, and cheerly wish her, Still as the bending net we sweep,

“ God bless the Fish-Hawk and the Fisher!"

She brings us fish-she bring us spring,

Good times, fair weather, warmth and plenty,
Fine store of shad, trout, herring, ling,
Sheep-heail and drum, and old-wives dainty.

Yo ho, my hearts ! let's seek the deep,

Ply every oar, and cheerly wish her,
Still as the bending net we sweep,

“ God bless the Fisl. Hawk, and the Fisher !*

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She rears her young on yonder tree,

She leaves her faithful mate to mind 'em; Like us, for fish, she sails to sea,

And, plunging, shews us where to find 'em.

Yo ho, my hearts! let's seek the deep,

Ply every oar and cheerly wish her,
While the slow-bending net we sweep,

" God bless the Fish-Hawk, and the Fisher!"

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Far lone, amang the Highland hills,

'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens,

With weary steps I wander.'
The langsome way, the darksome day,

The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,

Sweet lass n' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe,

Just op’ning fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly ’neath the hazel bough,

And's scarcely seen by ony:
Sae, sweet amidst her native hills,

Obscurely blooms my Jeany, Mair fair and gay than rosy May,

The flower o’ Arranteenie.

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,

I view the distant ocean,
There Av’rice guides the bounding prow,

Ambition courts promotion-
Let Fortune pour ler golden store,

Her laureld favours many,
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,

The lass o’ Arranteenie.

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Go round, my wheel, go round
With ceaseless thrumming sound,

And spin a thread as long and fine,

As is the Gossamer's silky twine,
To form the veil that now must cover,
This heart that beats but for its lover.

* This is the composition of Gottfr. Aug. Burder, a German poet of consi. derable talent; much and deservedly esteemed in his own country, and from what we have seen of his compositions we hesitate not to say, that they need only to be faithfully translated to be generally read. In the Edinburgh Magazine for 1818, will be found several translations of this eminent poet, and from which we extract the present "Spinning Song," not from the idea that it is the best, but the most suitable for our publication. In the same volume,

Go round, my wheel, go'round' .,
With ceaseless thrumming sound,

And spin a 'kerchief fine and rare,

To deck my bosom at the fair, Where soon the bright hair'd youth I'll seeg. Whose heart of love is gold to me.

Go round, my wheel, go round
With ceaseless thrumming sound,
· Like the veil thou spinn’st to me,
- Must my spotless bosem be,
As free from stain, as foftly fine,
As is thy loveliest, purest twine.

the translator has the following critical comparison between Burder and our favourite Bard, Robert Burns. “Burder has, in many respects a manifest resemblance to our own Burns, although the most superficial reader will perceive, that these two popular poets have many sufficiendy distinct points of dissimilitude, and that perhaps two better instances could not be selected than those offered by these kindred spirits of the discriminating traits of Scotch and German genius. Yet Burder, like Burns, delighted to sing of love as it is known to those whose feelings have not been corrupted, either by vicious indulgence, or by much commerce with the world, of that pure, and ardent, and entrancing love, which glows in the breasts of healthy peasants, and which, to those who are under its influence, give a character and interest to every thing in life, of which cooler minds have not the slightest idea. Burder like Burns, could well depict those feelings, somewhat akin to love, by which the breasts of youthful and enthusiastic men are agitated, when they give full play in some hour of conviviality and joy, to all the social propensities of their nature. There is another point of resemblance between these celebrated poets, and that is, the unfeigned rapture with which both of them can depict an act of generosity, and the power which they possess over those moral sensibilities of our nature, from whose operation all high active virtue must proceed. Burns, indeed, has not painted any thing of this kind in a regular tale:

hose who are acquainted with his works, are aware by what powerful touches of indignation or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or

Go round, my wheel, go round
With ceaseless thrumming sound,
· He for whom the badge I twine,

Of a 'kerchief pure and fine,
Loves a heart in virtue drest,
Better than the gaudiest breast.

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O Harp! that ebeerd my trembling limbs, O'er many a pathless rugged wild ; O Muse! that erst so fondly smild On fancy's lov'd poetic child,



our admiration, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or praiseworthy on such characters or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His ' instances of these qualities, too, like our German Author, are commonly selected from humble life; and there is po reader of poetry in this country whose heart has not beat with a livelier pulse in favour of honest and undisguised condụct, when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole of the song

" Is there for honest poverty," and in many other productions of this powerful author. I have only to me. gret, that I hare not been able to give them, in my poor version, the thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the immortal verse of the original author."

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