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Peace, peace to the shades of those heroes who bled
For the freedom of Europe, by glory's aim led.
Peace, peace to their shades, though low their dust lies,
Never die shall their fame, till immortal they rise.
Peace, peace to the shades of those warriors so true,
Who fell at the battle of fam'd Waterloo.

While time and fate their course pursue,

While fair Europa life retains,
The Gaul's defeat at Waterloo,

The muse shall sing in grateful strains.

* We have the pleasure in presenting to our readers, an ode or song, the production of John Carnegie, Esq; It was composed for, and, we understand, sung with much applause by Francis M'Gill, Esq; at the anniversary of the memorable battle of Waterloo, held at Port-Glasgow, on the 18th June 1816. It would be superfluous to prefix a minute account of this glorious atchievement; it is yet fresh in the minds of every individual; suffice it to say, that the battle of Waterloo was fought on the 18th June 1815, when, by the gallant efforts of the British troops, under the command of the most noble Duke of Wellington, of the Prussians, under the command of the venerable Marshal Blucher; the French army, headed by Buonaparte in person, were

ompletely defeated, by which peace was restored to Europe, and Louis XVIII. ascended the throne of his ancestors,

Let the loud sounding trumpet the triumph proclaim,
Of Wellington, Anglesea, Hope, Hill, and Græme.
Let the nations to Britain, with banners unfurld,
Give the palm-She gave freedom to half of the world.
Raise the trophy to Britain, emblazon her name
In the temple of glory, and annals of fame.

Now the mighty contest's o'er,

Joy shall fill the world again,
War shall cease from shore to shore,

Peace shall bless, and freedom reign,

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The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,

How sweet to rove

Thro' Morna's grove,
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love !

Then, awake! the heavens look bright, my dear! "Tis never too late for delight, my dear!

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days,
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star,

More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love;
Then, awake, till rise of sun, my dear!
The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear!

Or, in watching the light

Of bodies of light,
He may happen to take thee for one, my dear!



Keen and cold is the blast loudly whistling around : .

As cold are the lips that once smild upon me; . And unyielding, alas! as this hard frozen ground,

The arms onco so ready my shelter to be.

Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast,

But few to console, and to love me, if any;
And my gains are so small, a bare pittance at most,

Repays the exertions of fatherless Fanny,

Once, indeed, I with pleasure and patience could toil,

But 'twas when my parents sat by and approv'd ; Then, my laces to sell, I went out with a smile,

Because my fatigue fed the parents I lov'd; And at night, when I brought them my hardly earn'd gains,

Though small they might be, still my comforts were many, For my mother's fond blessing rewarded the pains ;

My father stood watching to welcome his Fanny,

But, ah! now I work, by their presence uncheer’d,

I feel 'tis a hardship indeed to be poor,
While I shrink from the labour, no longer endear'd,

And sigh’as I knock at the wealthy man's door.
Then, alas! when, at night, I return to my home,

No longer I boast that my comforts are many, To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,

Where no one exclaims, “ Thou art welcome, my Fanny."

That, that is the pang; want and toil would impart

No pangs to my breast, if my friends I could see;
For the wealth I require, is that of the heart,

The fruits of affection are riches to me.
Then, ye wealthy, O think, when to you I apply

To purchase my goods, tho' you do not buy any,
If in accents of kindness you deign to deny,

You'll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny.



Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar,
“ Charlie, meet me and ye daur,
And I'll learn you the art o' war,

If you'll meet wi' me in the morning."

Hey Johnny Coup, are ye waking yet?
Or are your drums a-beating yet?
If ye were waking I would wait,
To gang to the coals i' the morning.

+ The vapouring of Sir John Cope, and the officers of his army, previous to the battle of Preston, September 1745, was notorious to all the attendants of his camp ; his total defeat, therefore, rendered him a butt, to which the shafts of ridicule were directed both by friends and foes ; his bravadoes, when there was no enemy in view; his fear on beholding the Highlanders, and his preci. pitate flight, are, in this song, delineated with much good humour. We deem it will not be uninteresting to give an account of this battle, as published by the Highland army.

“ The Grants of Glenmoriston joined the Prince's army, September 20. That morning his Royal Highness the Prince put himself at the head of the army at Duddingstone, and presenting his sword, said, “ My friends, I have flung away the scabbard.” This was answered with a cheerful huzza. The army marched, and drew up on Carberry-hill, where we learned that Gene ral Cope had fallen down to the low conntry, east of Prestonpans. This dis rected our march along the brow of the hill, till we descried the enemy, upor

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