MEG O' THE GLEN.
Meg o' the glen set aff to the fair,
Wi' ruffles and ribbons, and meikle prepare,
Her heart it was heavy, her head it was licht,
For a' the lang way for a wooer she sicht;
She spak' to the lads, but the lads slippet by,
She spak' to the lassies, the lassies were shy,
She thought she might do, but she didna weel ken,

For nane seem'd to care for poor Meg o’the glen. NOW MARION DRY YOUR TEARFU' E'E.

Now Marion dry your tearfu' e'e,

Gae break your rock in twa,
For soon your gallant sons ye'll see,

Returned in safety a'.
O wow, gudeman, my heart is fain!
And shall I see my bairns again?
A' seated round our ain hearthstane,

Nae mair to gang awa ?
DAVIE TULLOCH'S BONNIE KATY.
Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katy,

Davie's bonnie blythsome Katy,
Tam the laird cam' down yestreen,

He socht her love, but gat her pity.
Wi' trembling grip he squeez'd her hand,

While his auld heart gaed pitty-patty,
Aye he thought his gear and land

Wad win the love o' bonnie Katy ;
Davie Tulloch's bonnie Katy,

Davie's bonnie blythsome Katy,
Aye she smil'd as Davie wil'd,
Her smile was scorn, yet mixt wi' pity.

KISS'D YESTREEN.
The lassies a' leugh, and the carlin flate,
But Maggie was sitten fu owrie and blate,
The auld silly gawky, she coudna contain
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen,

Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen,
She blether’d it round to her fae and her friend,
How brawly she was kiss'd yestreen.
HEY DONALD, HOW DONALD
Tho’ siinmer smiles on bank and brae,
And nature bids the heart be gay,
Yet a' the joys o' flow'ry May,

Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me.
Hey Donald, how Donald !
Think upon your vow, Donald
Mind the heather knowe, Donald,
Whare ye vow'd to love me.

KITTY O'CARROL.
Ye may boast of your charms, and be proud to be sure,
As if there was never such beauty before,
Bat, ere I got wedded to old Thady More,
I had dozens of wooers each night at my door,
With their, Och dear! O will you marry me,

Kitty O'Carrol, the joy of my soul! BIY DAYS HA’E FLOWN WI' GLEESOME SPEED

My days hae flown wi' gleesome speed,

Grief ne'er sat heavy on my mind,
Sae happy in my rural reed,

I lilted every care behind;
I've whiles been vext, and sair perplext,

When friends prov'd false, or beauty shy,
But, like gude John O'Badenyon,
I crun'd my lilt, and car'd na by.

THE BANKS OF SPEY.
Srnes of my childhood, your wanderer hails you,
Wilg'd with rude storms, tho' the winter assails you,
Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet hae charms to cheer me
For liere amidst my native hills, my bonny lassie's near me ;
*Tis sad to see the withered lea, the drumly flooded fountain,
The angry storm in awful form, that sweeps the moor and

mountain, But frae the surly swelling blast, dear lassie, I'll defend her, And frac the bonnie banks of Spey I never more shall wander.

THE

Harp of Renfrewshire.

GLEN-ORRA.

THE gale is high, the bark is light,

Swiftly it glides the dark sea over,
Why bear, ye waves, so base a freight,

Why waft, ye winds, a vagrant lover.
Wake, artless maid, thy dream is o'er,

No brightning hope can gild the morrow, Thy lover hails a distant shore, Nor thinks of thee far in Glen-Orra.

The moon is up, the maiden's gone,

Where flower and tree the night dews cover, To weep by mountain streamlet lone, O'er perjur'd vows of faithless lover,

Turn, faithless wretch, seek Orra's wild,

To rapture raise the maiden's sorrow,
Ah! see where love so lately smil'd,

Cold, cold, she sinks in dark Glen-Orra.

The moon hangs pale o'er Orra's steep,

And lists a hapless maiden sighing,
The sullen night-winds, cavern'd sleep,

As loath to rave o'er maiden dying,
The hue of death has blench'd the lip,

The rosy cheek is pale with sorrow,
Ere morn, death's chilly hand shall nip

The loveliest flower in green Glen-Orra.

O slumber, my darling, thy sire is a knight,
Thy mother a lady so lovely and bright,
The hills and the dales from the tow'rs which we see,
They all shall belong, my dear infant, to thee.

O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day,
O Fest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may
O fear not the bugle, tho' loudly it blows,
It calls but the wardens that guard thy repose,
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the foot of a foeman drew near to thy bed.

Then rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day,
Then rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may.

O slumber, my darling, the time it may come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum,
Then hush thee, dear baby, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood as light comes with day,

O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day.
Orest thee, babe, rest thec, babe, sleep while you may.

III.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried,
Not a soldier discharg'd bis farewell shot,

O'er the grave where our hero was buried.