Songs.

WHO LOVES NOT TO THINK OF GLENFINNAN ?

AIR-Wooed an' married an' a'.

WHO loves not to think of Glenfinnan-
That glen of the gathering grand,
Where hastened, young Charlie to welcome,
The bravest and best in the land!
Well might he be proud of his place in
Their hearts all so loyal and leal;

No foe to his rights would care facing,
That day, the dread flash of their steel.
Hòro, toguibh an aird! *

Hòro, toguibh an aird!

What chief could be deaf to that slogan,
Hòro, toguibh an aird!

Arrayed in the garb of the Gaël,

In fancy, I see him still there-
The Prince so long loyally hoped for,

Glad-trusting his cause to their care:

Ho, gather up !- the refrain of a once popular Gaelic Jacobite song.

So worthy the throne of his fathers
He looked that, like Highlanders true,
They swear, his lost rights to recover,
Together to die or to do!

Hòro, toguibh an aird!

Hòro, toguibh an aird!

What clansman that day would not chorus
Hòro, toguibh an aird!

Woe's me for the mighty in battle

The heroes in honour so steeled!
No "Cothrom na Féine" vain seeking,

They died where they never would yield.

What man could well grudge to such true hearts
Their still-swelling meed of renown?

Alas that the sun of the Stuarts

At such a dread cost should go down!

Hòro, toguibh an aird!

Hòro, toguibh an aird!

Alas for Glenfinnan's proud slogan,

Hòro, toguibh an aird!

THE HILLS OF THE HEATHER.

AIR-The Bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.

GIVE the swains of Italia 'mong myrtles to rove,
Give the proud sullen Spaniard his bright orange grove,

Give gold-sanded streams to the sons of Chili,
But give the red hills of the heather to me.

Chorus

Then drink we a health to the old Highland Bens Whose heads cleave the welkin, whose feet press the

glens:

What Scot worth the name would not toast them with glee?

The red heather hills of the Highlands for me!

The hills whose wild echoes delight to prolong

The soul-stirring pibrochd, the stream's gushing songStorm-vexed and mist-mantled though often they be, Still dear are the hills of the heather to me.

Chorus

Then drink we a health to the old Highland Bens That fondly look down on the clan-peopled glens: What Scot worth the name would not toast them with glee?

The red heather hills of the Highlands for me!

Your Carses may boast of their well-cultured farms,
Yet give me the Bens shielding well in their arms
Blue lakes grandly glassing crag, cliff, tower, and tree :
The red heather hills of the Highlands for me!

Chorus

Then drink we a health to the old Highland Bens,
Their deer-haunted corries and hazelwood dens:

What Scot worth the name would not toast them with

glee?

The red heather hills of the Highlands for me!

'Tis there neath the tartan beat hearts the most leal,-
Hearts warm as the sunshine, yet firm as the steel ;-
There only this heart can feel happy and free:
The red heather hills of the Highlands for me!

Chorus

Then drink we a health to the old Highland Bens,
Glad leaving to England, her flats and her fens :

What Scot worth the name would not toast them with glee ?

The red heather hills of the Highlands for me!

ELLIE BHÒIDHEACH.

AIR-" The Lass o' Gourie."

Of all the many scenes that be
A memory aye sweet to me
My heart clings most to fair Carskey,
The home of Ellie bhòidheach.*
There first I felt love's pleasing pain;
There, told her smiles that not in vain
I might aspire some day to gain

The hand of Ellie bhòidheach.

Alas that true love never may

Be left to choose its own sweet way!
If thus it were, my bride to-day

Might be sweet Ellie bhòidheach.
Yet, as the breath of zephyrs tell
Of flowers that deck the distant dell,
So ever in my heart shall dwell

Sweet thoughts of Ellie bhòidheach.

GLENARA, I LOVE THEE.

GLENARA, I love thee, though not for thy share
Of far-stretching woodlands or balm-breathing air,
Thy flower-spangled meadows or heather-clad braes;
Charms other than these now alone claim my praise.

I love thee though not for the streamlets that run,
Now hid in the birch-wood, now kissed by the sun;
The notes of thy song-birds no more charm my ear,
Still less could the sportsman's rude work tempt me here.

O no-for unheeded the roe now skips by ;
No trout from Carlunan to tempt do I try;
A magnet surpassing all these I find in
The golden-haired lass in yon cot by the linn.

Yes, maiden beloved! as a bee, that has found
Some honey-bloom rare in his balm-seeking round,
Returns and returns oft to feast on his prize,
So seek I love's food in thy tale-telling eyes.