Till Charlie Stewart cam at last
Sae far to set us free;

My Donald's arm was wanted then,
For Scotland and for me.

Their waefu' fate what need I tell!
Right to the wrang did yield;
My Donald and his country fell
Upon Culloden field!

I hae nocht left me ava,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!

But bonnie orphan lad-weans twa,
To seek their bread wi' me.

I hae yet a tocher band,
Ochon, ochon, ochrie!

My winsome Donald's durk an' bran',
Into their hands to gie.

There's only ae blink o' hope left,
To lighten my auld ee,

To see my bairns gie bludie crownes
To them gar't Donald die! *

"This song," says Mr. CROMEK, in his Remains, "has been known in another garb for many years in Galloway. The three last verses are now first printed. The fifth, sixth, and seventh verses, are wholly by BURNS.

"The determined fierceness of the Highland character urges to acts of desperate resolution and heroism. One of a clan, at the battle of Culloden, being singled out and wounded, set his back against a park wall, and with his targe and claymore bore singly the onset of a party of dragoons. Pushed to desperation, he made resistless strokes at his enemies, who crowded and encumbered themselves to have each the glory of slaying him. • Save that brave fellow,' was the unregarded cry of some officers. Golice Macbane was cut to pieces, and thirteen of his enemies lay dead around him.".

THOUGH WOMEN'S MINDS.

TUNE-" For a' that and a' that."

THOUGH Women's minds, like winter winds,
May shift and turn, and a' that,
The noblest breast adores them maist,
A consequence I draw that.

For a' that and a' that,

And twice as meikle's a' that;
The bonnie lass that I lo'e best,
She'll be my ain, for a' that.

Great love I bear to a' the fair,
Their humble slave, and a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a' that, &c.

But there is ane aboon the lave,
Has wit and sense, and a' that;
A bonnie lass, I like her best,
And wha a crime daur ca' that.
For a' that, &c.

In rapture sweet this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love, and a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft,
They've ta'en me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex!
I like the jades for a' that.

For a' that, &c.

A' BODY'S LIKE TO GET MARRIED BUT ME. As Jenny sat down wi' her wheel by the fire, And thought of the time that was fast fleein' by, She said to hersel', wi' a heavy heigh hee, O, a' body's like to get married but me!

She said, &c.

My youthfu' companions are a' worn awa,
And tho' I've had wooers mysel', ane or twa,
Yet a lad to my mind I ne'er yet could see:
O, a' body's like to get married but me!

Yet a lad, &c.

There's Lowrie, the lawyer, wad hae me fu' fain,
Who has baith a house and a yard o' his ain ;
But before I'd gang to it, I rather wad die;
A wee stumpin' body! he'll never get me!
But before, &c.

There's Dickie, my cousin, frae Lun'on come down,
Wi' fine yellow buckskins that dazzled the town;
But, poor deevil, he got ne'er a blink o' my ee:
O, a' body's like to get married but me!

But, poor deevil, &c.

But I saw a lad by yon saughy-burn side,
Wha weel wad deserve onie queen for his bride:
Gin I had my will, soon his ain I wad be:
O, a' body's like to get married but me!
Gin I had, &c.

I gied him a look, as a kind lassie shou'd;
My friends, if they kend it, wad surely rin wud;
For tho' bonnie and good, he's no worth a bawbee:
O, a' body's like to get married but me!

For tho' bonnie, &c.

Сс

'Tis hard to take shelter behint a laigh dike; 'Tis hard for to take ane we never can like; 'Tis hard for to leave ane we fain would be wi'; Yet its harder that a' should get married but me. 'Tis hard for, &c.

THE BLACK-E'ED LASSIE.
TUNE-" My only jo and dearie, 0.”
Wr' truest love, I love thee Jean-
But dinna ye be saucy, O,
Or why I love I winna tell,

My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O.
It's no thy cheek o' rosy hue,
It's no thy little cherry mou,
It's a' because thy heart's sae true,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

It's no the witch-glance o' thy ee,
Tho' few for that surpass ye, 0,
That mak's ye aye sae dear to me,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
It's no the whiteness o' thy skin,
It's no love's dimple on thy chin;-
It's a' thy modest worth within,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!

Ye smile sae sweet, ye look sae kind,
That a' wish to caress ye, O;
But I adore thy heav'nly mind,
My bonnie black-e'ed lassie, O!
I've seen thy een, like crystal clear,
Shine dimly thro' saft pity's tear,
Which mak's ye ever, ever dear

To me, my black-e'ed lassie, O!

O ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE.

TUNE-" Sleepy Maggy."

O are ye sleeping, Maggie,
O are ye sleeping, Maggie;
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie.
MIRK and rainy is the night,
No a starn in a' the carry;
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.
O are ye, &c.

Fearful soughs the boortree bank,

The rifted wood roars wild and drearie;

Loud the iron yate does clank,

And cry of howlets makes me eerie.
O are ye, &c.

Aboon my breath I darna speak,

For fear I rouse your waukrife daddie; Cauld's the blast upon my cheek;

O rise, rise, my bonnie lady!
O are ye, &c.

She opt the door, she let him in,
He cuist aside his dreeping plaidie:
Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye.

Now since ye're waking, Maggie,
Now since ye're waking, Maggie,
What care I for howlet's cry,

For boortree bank, or warlock craigie!