To draw their sword for Scotland's lord,
The young Chevalier.

Oh! there were mony beating hearts,
And mony hopes and fears,
And mony were the prayers put up
For the young Chevalier.*

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THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER.

TUNE-Allan Water.

On the banks of Allan water,

When the sweet spring-time did fall,
Was the miller's lovely daughter,

Fairest of them all.

For his bride a soldier sought her,
And a winning tongue had he;
On the banks of Allan water
None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan water,

When brown autumn spread its store,
There I saw the miller's daughter,

But she smiled no more:

For the summer grief had brought her,
And her soldier false was he;

On the banks of Allan water

None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan water,

When the winter snow fell fast,

Still was seen the miller's daughter

Chilling blew the blast;

*This spirited Jacobite song has been written, evidently at a very recent period, in imitation of a less delicate and poetical ditty with the same owerword and chorus.

But the miller's lovely daughter
Both from cold and care was free;
On the banks of Allan water

There a corse lay she.

ANNAN'S WINDING STREAM.

STEWART LEWIS.*

TUNE-Gramachree.

ON Annan's banks, in life's gay morn,
I tuned " my wood-notes wild;"
I sung of flocks and flow'ry plains,
Like nature's simple child.

Some talk'd of wealth-I heard of fame,
But thought 'twas all a dream,

For dear I loved a village maid

By Annan's winding stream.

* Stewart Lewis was a native of Lockerby, in Dumfries-shire. In the earlier part of his life he was a merchant-tailor, but a dispute with his partner caused him afterwards to assume the more manly profession of arms. I remember seeing him in his old days, about the year 1810; when, having long given up all regular employment, he used to travel through the country, with a bundle of small pamphlets, containing his poems, which he subsisted by selling. He was a man of extravagant speech, and had at least one pretension to the character of a poet-that he held all persons of merely common sense in great scorn, and looked upon worldly prudence as next thing to villainy. His poetry had some merit; but if he had been a Shakspeare, or a Burns, he could not have had a higher notion of his dignity as a bard. His wife travelled with him; a little old woman, forming a strong contrast in her real appearance to the fanciful description of her in the above song. She was, however, a woman of prudence, and was devotedly attached to her husband. When seen along with him, with her modest figure, and her perpetual attempts to soften away the effects of his wild language, she looked like " dejected Pity" by the side of Revenge, in Collins's Ode, and was almost as interesting a picture. When she died, the poor pcet almost went distracted with grief. One day, soon after that event, I found, on coming home, a letter lying for me, which had been left by him in my absence. It was scrawled from top to bottom in huge and wildly irregular characters; but the whole words which it contained were the following: "MY DEAR SIR, I AM MAD-STEWART LEWIS." He did not long survive his partner, but died in 1818, at Lockerby, in a state of incurable and almost insane melancholy, which had no other cause than grief for her death.

The dew-bespangled blushing rose,
The garden's joy and pride,
Was ne'er so fragrant nor so fair
As her I wish'd my bride.
The sparkling radiance of her eye
Was bright as Phoebus' beam;
Each grace adorn'd my village maid
By Annan's winding stream.

But war's shrill clarion fiercely blew-
The sound alarm'd mine ear;

My country's wrongs call'd for redress—
Could I my aid forbear?

No;-soon, in warlike garb array'd,
With arms that bright did gleam,
I sigh'd, and left my village maid
By Annan's winding stream.

Perhaps blest peace may soon return,
With all her smiling train;
For Britain's conquests still proclaim
Her sovereign of the main.
Whene'er that wish'd event appears,
I'll hail the auspicious gleam,
And haste to clasp my village maid
Near Annan's winding stream.

LEWIE GORDON.

GEDDES.*

TUNE-Lewie Gordon.

O SEND Lewie Gordon hame,
And the lad I daurna name;

A Roman Catholic priest at Shenval, in the Enzie, Banffshire. "Lewie Gordon" was Lord Lewis Gordon, son of the Duke of Gordon, who raised a regiment and joined Prince Charles in 1745. By the lad I daurna name," is meant Prince Charles Stuart, to whom the whole song, after the first line, evidently alludes.

Though his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that's far awa.
Ochon, my Highlandman !
O my bonnie Highlandman!
Weel would I my true love ken,
Amang ten thousand Highlandmen.

O! to see his tartan trews,
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes,
Philabeg aboon his knee!

That's the lad that I'll gang wi'.
Ochon, &c.

This lovely youth of whom I sing,
Is fitted for to be a king;

On his breast he wears a star:
You'd tak' him for the god of war.
Ochon, &c.

O to see this princely one
Seated on a royal throne!
Disasters a' would disappear;
Then begins the jub'lee year.
Ochon, &c.

O, HUSH THEE, MY BABY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

TUNE-" Gadil gu lo.” *

O, HUSH thee, my baby! Thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens from these towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

*"Sleep on till day."

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows;
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose.
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

O, hush thee, my baby! The time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum Then hush thee, my darling; take rest while you may; For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

OCH HEY, JOHNNIE LAD.

TANNAHILL,

OCH hey, Johnnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye

Och hey, Johnnie lad,

sou'd hae been

Ye didna keep your tryst yestreen.
I waited lang beside the wood,
Sae wae and weary a' my lane;

Och hey, Johnnie lad,

It was a waefu' nicht yestreen!

I lookit by the whinny knowe,
I lookit by the firs sae green;
I lookit ower the spunkie howe,
And aye I thocht ye wad hae been.
The ne'er a supper cross'd my craig,
The ne'er a sleep has closed my een:
Och hey, Johnnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye sou'd hae been.

Gin

ye were waitin' by the wood,
It's I was waitin' by the thorn;
I thocht it was the place we set,
And waited maist till dawnin' morn.