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Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie,

Here's Kenmure's health in wine ;
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude,

Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

He kiss'd his ladie's hand, Willie,

He kiss'd his ladie's hand;
But gane's his ladie's courtesie,

When he draws his bludie brand.

His ladie's cheek was red, Willie,

His ladie's cheek was red;
When she saw his steely jupes put on,

Which smelld a deadlie feud.

Here's him that's far awa', Willie,

Here's him that's far awa'!
And here's the flower that I loe best,

The rose that's like the snaw.

preceding that on which he suffered, he wrote to a certain nobleman, stab ing that he died firm in principles of adherence to the Chevalier, “whom he believed to be the legitimate son of King James the Second *."

Among the peasantry of Nithsdale and Galloway, his memory is still revered. He was a virtuous nobleman, calm, sensible, resolute, and resigned, and a devout member of the protestant church. “ He had ever lived," as he said in the letter to which we have already alluded, “and would die, in the profession of the protestant religion.”

* See Account of the Rebellion in 1715--16, by Geo. Charles, 2 vols. 8vo.



0, wha's at my chamber door?

“ Fair widow, are ye wauking?"
Auld carle, your suit give o'er,

Your love lies a' in tauking,
Gie me the lad that's young and tight,

Sweet like an April meadow;
'Tis sic as he can bless the sight

And bosom of a widow.

“O widow, wilt thou let me in,

I'm pauky, wise, and thrifty,
And come of a right gentle kin;

An' little mair than fifty."
Daft carle, dit your mouth,

What signifies how pauky
Qr gentle born ye bem-bot youth,

In love you're bụt a gawky.

“ Then, widow, let these guineas speak,

That powerfully plead clinken,
And if they fail, my mouth I'll steek,

And nae mair love will think on,"

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These court indeed, I maun confess,

I think they make you young, sir,
And ten times better can express

Affection than your tongue, sir,



Subdu'd by misfortunes, and bow'd down with pain,

I sought on the bosom of peace to recline: I hied to the home of my fathers again,

But the home of my fathers no longer was mine.

The look that spoke gladness and welcome was gone;'

The blaze that shone bright in the hall was no more : A stranger was there, with a bosom of stone,

And cold was his eye as I enter'd his door.

'Twas his, deaf to pity, to tenderness dead,

The falling to crush, and the humble to spurn; But I staid not his scorn,—from his mansion I fled,

And my beating heart vow'd never more to return.

When home' shall receive me, one home yet I know,

O’er its gloomy recess see the pine-branches wave, 'Tis the tomb of my fathers. The world is my foe,

And all my inheritance now is a grave.

'Tis the tomb of my fathers, the grey moisten'd walls,

Declining to earth, speak, emphatic, decay : The gate, off its hinge, and half-opening, calls

Approach, most unhappy, thy dwelling of clay."

Alas! thou sole dwelling of all I hold dear,

How little this meeting once augur'd my breast ! From a wanderer accept, oh my fathers, this tear,

Receive him, the last of your race, to your rest.



AIR-Loudon's bonnie Woods and Braes,

And can thy bosom bear the thought

To part frae love and me, laddie?
Are all those plighted vows forgot,

Sae fondly pledged by thee, laddie ?

Can'st thou forget the midnight hour,
When in yon love-inspiring bower,
You vow'd by every heavenly power,

You'd ne'er loe ane but me, laddie.
Wilt thou—wilt thou gang and leave me,
Win my heart, and then deceive me?
Oh! that heart will break, believe me,

Gin ye part wi' me, laddie.

Aft hae


my rosy cheek,
Aft prais'd my sparkling e'e, laddie,
Aft said nae bliss on earth ye'd seek,

But love, and live wi' me, laddie. But soon those cheeks will lose their red, Those eyes in endless sleep be hid, And 'neath the turf the heart be laid,

That beats for love, and thee, laddie. Wilt thou-wilt thou gang and leave me, Win heart and then deceive me? Oh! that heart will break, believe me,

Gin ye part frae me, laddie.


You'll meet a form mair sweet and fair,

Where rarer beauties shine, laddie,
But oh! the heart can never bear,

A love sae true as mine, laddie.
But when that heart is laid at rest,
That heart that loed ye last and best,
Oh, then the pangs that rend t'iy breast

Will shiarper be than mine, laddie.

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