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Go round, my wheel, go round!
With ceaseless thrumming sound,

And spin a 'kerchief fine and rare,

To deck my bosom at the fair, Where soon the bright hair'd youth I'll sees. Whose heart of love is gold to me.

Go round, my wheel, go round
With ceaseless thrumming sound,

Like the veil thou spinn'st to me,

Must my spotless bosem de, As free from stain, as foftly fine, As is thy loveliest, purest twine.

the translator has the following critical comparison between Burder and out favourite Bard, Robert Burns. “Burder has, in many respects a manifest resemblance to our own Burns, although the most superficial reader will perceive, that these two popular poets have many sufficiendy distinct points of dissimilitude, and that perhaps two better instances could not be selected than those offered by these kindred spirits of the discriminating traits of Scotch and German genius. Yet Burder, like Burns, delighted to sing of love as it is known to those whose feelings have not been corrupted, either by vicious indulgence, or by much commerce with the world, of that pure, and ardent, and entrancing love, which glows in the breasts of healthy peasants, and which, to those who are under its influence, give a character and interest to every thing in life, of which cooler minds have not the slightest idea. Burder, too, like Burns, could well depict those feelings, somewhat akin to love, by which the breasts of youthful and enthusiastic men are agitated, when they give full play in some hour of conviviality and joy, to all the social propensities of their nature. There is another point of resemblance between these celebrated poets, and that is, the unfeigned rapture with which both of them can depict an act of generosity, and the power which they possess over those moral sensibilities of our nature, from whose operation all high active virtue must proceed. Burns, indeed, has not painted any thing of this kind in a regular tale: but all those who are acquainted with his works, are aware by what powerful touches of indignation or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or

Go round, my wheel, go round
With ceaseless thrumming sound,

He for whom the badge I twine,

Of a 'kerchief pure and fine,
Loves a heart in virtue drest,
Better than the gaudiest breast:





O Harp! that ebeer'd my trembling limbs,
O'er many a pathless rugged wild ;
O Muse! that erst so fondly smil'd
On fancy's lov'd poetic child,

our admiration, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or praiseworthy on such characters or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His instances of these qualīties, too, like our German Author, are commonly selected from humble life; and there is po reader of poetry in this country whose heart has not beat with a livelier pulse in favour of honest and undisguised conduct, when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole song

“Is there for honest poverty," and in many other productions of this powerful author. I have only to re. gret, that I have

not been able to give them, in my poor version, the thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the immortal verse of the original author."

of the

Farewell for aye : a salt tear dims
The eye, that never wept before;
Our mortal pilgrimage is o'er,
And now we part to meet no more!

Our lay of joy is past and gone,
That once in vaulted halls we sung;
Alas! our final peal hath rung
Of mirth, high dames and lords among :

The narrow home where song must end;
There no merry lays ascend
Where my feeble footsteps wend.

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Here on this oak that bourgeons fair,
I'll hang thy wires of witching tone;
The passing breeze will cause them moan,
And swell my requiem when I'm gone.

The traveller faint will list'ning stare,
And marvel whence thy sounds proceed,
The fairy king in buxom weed,
Will leave his dance to hear thy rede.


She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale,
Rise sweetly in thy midnight song,
Now, rapid roll, full ton'd, and strong,
Now, low and dying, weep along.

Oh! she will hear thee oft bewail
The fate of lovers true, and tell
How many an evil tide befell
Maids, who have lov'd but all too well.

The steel-clad knight as home he wends,
From battle toils, and sieges dire,

and check his courser's fire, And under thy old oak retire:

For, lo! thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities.

O Harp! be still a little while,
Nor wake thy dirge of, melting numbers,
Stay till thy master calmly slumbers,
Where no bale his bliss encumbers.

Now, take with thee his last faint smile,
And benison, in death's arms given,
Oh now begin thy mournful steven,
And waft my soul on it to heaven!

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A coggie o' ale, and a pickle ait meal
Adown the green dell, near the Abbey's

Again rejoicing nature sees
Again the happy day returns

Ah! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell
All in the merry Whitsuntide
All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream
Amid Loch-Caterine's scenery wild
A moment pause, ye British fair

And art thou gone, for ever gone
And can thy bosom bear the thought
And has she then failed in her truth

As I came in by our gate end
At the close of the day in the sacred Aisle
Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits

Auld Rob, the laird o' muckle land
Away! let nought to love displeasing note

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Tannahill 237


Joanna Baillie 157


John Sim
J. Goldie 199






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Beyond Busaco's mountains dun

Blow on, ye wild winds, o'er his hallowed

Blythely I hae screwed my pipes
By the side of a mountain, o'ershadowed with trees

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Can a crown give content

Claudine liv'd contented and peace was her lot
Columbia! Columbia! to glory arise

Come live with me, and be my love
Come o'er the sea
Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar


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