MEG O' THE GLEN. Meg o' the glen set aff to the fair, Wi' ruffles and ribbons, and meikle prepare, NOW MARION DRY YOUR TEARFU' E'E. O wow, gudeman, my heart is fain! DAVIE TULLOCH'S BONNIE KATY. Davie's bonnie blythsome Katy, 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, Kiss'd yestreen, kiss'd yestreen, She blether'd it round to her fae and her friend, HEY DONALD, HOW DONALD Wi' pleasure ne'er can move me. Hey Donald, how Donald! KITTY O'CARROL. Ye may boast of your charms, and be proud to be sure, But, ere I got wedded to old Thady More, Kitty O'Carrol, the joy of my soul! BIY DAYS HA'E FLOWN WI' GLEESOME SPEED Sae happy in my rural reed, I lilted every care behind; I've whiles been vext, and sair perplext, But, like gude John O'Badenyon, I crun'd my lilt, and car'd na by. THE BANKS OF SPEY. Scenes of my childhood, your wanderer hails you, Wing'd with rude storms, tho' the winter assails you, Bleak and dreary as ye are, ye yet hae charms to cheer me For here 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 frae the bonnie banks of Spey I never more shall wander. THE gale is high, the bark is light, No bright'ning 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, A Turn, faithless wretch, seek Orra's wild, Cold, cold, she sinks in dark Glen-Orra. The moon hangs pale o'er Orra's steep, II. LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. AIR" Cadil gu lo." O slumber, my darling, thy sire is a knight, The hills and the dales from the tow'rs which we see, O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day, O rest 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, Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, O'er the grave where our hero was buried. * We have not been able to obtain any information who it was that wrote this poetical elegy, nor are there any traces which afford room for conjecture. It appeared at first in several of the public newspapers, from whence it was copied into Blackwood's Magazine, for the month of June 1817. The affair, however, to which it refers, and the distinguished person whom it so justly |