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Now, round the ingle cheerly miet,

We'll scog the blast and dread nae harm,
Wi' jaws o' toddy, reeking het, -

We'll keep the genial current warm.
The friendly crack, the cheerfu' sang,

Shall cheat the happy hours awa',
Gar pleasure reign the e'ening lang,
And laugh at biting frost and snaw.

Blyth are we, &c.

The cares that cluster round the heart,

And gar the bosom stound wi' pain,
Shall get a fright afore we part,

Will gar them fear to come again.
Then, fill about, my winsome chiels,

The sparkling glass will banish pine:
Nae pain the happy bosom feels,
Sae free o' care as yours and mine.

Blyth are we, &c.

The above song is given from the two volumes of miscela laneous poetry published by Picken, previous to his death. Some particulars regarding him have been handed to us by a friend, which were, however, too late for insertion in the proper place. That friend has also given us the name of another versifier, by name James Caldwell, of whom we were ignorant. Caldwell, it seems, was the author of several loyal songs, published anonymously, which were sung on His Majesty's birth-day, at the annual processions of the weavers of Paisley. These were mostly composed during the period that Wilkes' faction was at its height. He died at an advanced period of life in 1787.

Ebenezer Picken was bred to the church, but desisted from prosecuting his theological studies, for the purpose of enjoying more leisure tu cultivate the muses. How much he may have sacrificed for their sakes, is not perliaps exactly known; but certain it is, that these coy nymphs adventured but little for his. He was of a social and joyous disposition, fond of company, and intimate with most of the minor constellations in the hemi. sphere of Scotish poetry. He was the friend of Alexander Wile

søn, and like him, delivered a poetic oration in the Pantheon at Edinburgh. Having embarked in some commercial speculations which failed Picken, after enjoying comparative affluence and comfort for some time, was reduced to indigence and distress. He died in 1815 or 1816.

We owe our thanks to the gentleman who furnished us with the substance of the above notices, and are only sorry that it is incompatible with our limits to insert the judicious reflections with which they were accompanied. Better use of them will be made hereafter.


A famous Scotish Sang.

TUNE–We're a' noddin.
Weel wha's in the bouroch, and what is your cheer?
The best that ye'll find in a thousand year.

And we're a' noddin, nid nid noddin,

We're a' noddin fou at e'en.
There's our ain Jamie Clark frae the hall o' Argyle,
Wi' his leal Scotish heart, and his kind open smile.

And we're a' noddin, &c.
There is Will the gude fallow, wha kills a' our care,
Wi' his sang and his joke, and a mutchkin mair.

And we're a' noddin, &c.
There is blythe Jamie Barr frae St. Barchan's town,
When wit gets a kingdom, he's sure o' the crown.

And we're a' noddin, fc.
There is Rab frae the south, wi' his fiddle and his flute,
I could list to his sangs till the starns fa' out.

And we're a' noddin, fc.
Apollo, for our comfort, has furnish'd the bowl,
And here is my bardship, as blind as an owl.
For we're a' noddin, fc.

Robert Tannahill,


AIR-Let us taste the sparkling wine.
Why unite to banish care?
Let him come our joys to share;
Doubly blest our cup shall flow,
When it soothes a brother's woe;
'Twas for this the Pow'rs divine
Crown'd our board with generous wine.

Far be hence the sordid elf
Who'd claim enjoyment for himself;
Come, the hardy seaman, lame,
The gallant soldier, robb’d of fame,
Welcome all who bear the woes
Of various kind that Merit knows.

Patriot heroes, doom'd to sigh,
Idle 'neath corruption's eye;
Honest tradesmen, credit worn,
Pining under fortune's scorn;
Wanting wealth, or lacking fame,
Welcome all that worth can claim,

Come, the hoary headed sage,
Sufforing more from want than age;
Come, the proud, tho' needy bard,
Starving 'midst a world's regard:
Welcome, welcome, one and all
That feel on this unfeeling ball.

Robert Tannahill. nmnom

The following are those Fragments mentioned in page 40 and 41 of the Essay.


My father wad hae me to marry the miller,

My mither wad hae me to marry the laird,
But brawly I ken it's the love o' the siller,

That heightens their fancy to ony regard;

The miller is crooket, the miller is crabbet,

The laird, tho' he's wealthy, is lyart and lean,
He's auld and he's cauld, and he's blin' and he's bald,
And he's no for a lassie o' merry eighteen.

O laddie, can ye leave me! •

Alas, 'twill break this constant heart.
There's nought on earth can grieve me

Like this, that we must part.
Think on the tender vow you made

Beneath the secret birken shade,
And can ye now deceive me!

Is a your love but art?

COME HAME TO YOUR LINGALS. Come hame to your lingals, ye ne'er-do-weel loon, Ye're the king o' the dyvors, the tauk o' the town: As often's the Munonday morning comes in, Your wearifu' daedling again maun begin. Gudewife, ye're a skillet, your tongue's just a bell, To the peace o' gude fellows, it rings the death-knell, But clack till ye deafen auld Barnaby's mill,

The souter shall aye hae his Munonday's yill.
Brave Lewie Roy was the flow'r of our highlandmen,

Tall as the oak on the lofty Benvoirluch,
Fleet as the light-bounding tenants of Fillan-glen,

Dearer than life to his lovely Neen voiuch;
Lone was his biding, the cave of his hiding,

When forc'd to retire with our gallant Prince Charlie, Tho' manly and fearless, his bold heart was cheerless, Away from the lady be aye lov'd so dearly.

I'll lay me on the wintry lee,

And sleep amidst the wind and weet,
And ere another's bride I be,

O bring to me my winding sheet!

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And war ye at Duntocher burn,

And did ye see them a', man!
And how's my wifie and the bairns ?

I ha'e been lang awa, man.
This hedger wark's a weary trade,

It doesna suit ava, man,
Wi' lanely house, and lanely bed,

My comforts are but sma, man.

Thou cauld gloomy Feberwar,

O gin thou wert awa',
I'm wae to hear thy sughing winds,

I'm wae to see thy snaw,
For my bonnie brave young Highlaner,

The lad I lo'e sae dear,
Has vow'd to coine and see me,

In the spring o' the year.

O how can ye gang, lassie, how can ye gang,

O how can ye gang sae to grieve me?
Wi' your beauty and your art, ye hae broken my heart,

For I never, never dreamt ye wad leave me!

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