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Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
Whare thousands fought and monie fell;
But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell

At the battle o' Vittoria.
The Paris maids may ban them a',
Their lads are maistly wede awa,
An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw

They lie upon Vittoria.

Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees
The eagle standard-bearer flees,
While the“ meteor flag" floats to the breeze,

An' wantons on Vittoria.
Britannia's glory there was shown,
By the undaunted Wellington,
An' the tyrant trembld on his throne,

Whan hearin' o' Vittoria.

Peace to the spirits o'the brave,
Let a' their trophies for them wave,
An' green be our Cadogan's grave,

Upon thy field, Vittoria!
There let eternal laurels bloom,
While maidens mourn his early doom,
An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb

Wi roses on Vittoria.

Ye Caledonian war-pipes play,
Barossa heard your Highlan'lay,
An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day,

A prelude to Vittoria.
Shout to the heroes-swell ilk voice,
To them wha made poor Spain rejoice;
Shout Wellington an' Lyndoch, boys,

Barossa an' Vittoria!


A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,

All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread;
And, drooping rich the dewy head,

It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast

Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood;
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,

Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jeanie fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care,

That tents thy early morning.
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day;
And bless the parent's evening ray,

That watch'd thy early morning.'

* The above Song was written by Burns during the winter of 1787. Miss JEANIE CRUIKSHANKS, only child of Mr. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANKS, of the High School, Edinburgh, a friend of the Bard's, is the heroine. “ The air,” says BURNS, “ is by a DAVID SILLAR, quondam merchant, and now schoolmaster in Irvine. He is the Davie to whom I address my printed epistle in the measure of the Cherry and the Slae."

O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour,

And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r,

Lord Gregory, ope thy door.
An exile frae her father's ha',

And a' for loving thee;
At least some pity on me shaw,

If love it may na be.
Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove,

By bonnie Irwine side,
Where first I own'd that virgin-love

I lang, lang had denied ?
How aften didst thou pledge and vow

Thou wad for aye be mine;
And my fond heart, itsel sae true,

It ne'er mistrusted thine.
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast:
Thou dart of heav'n that flashest by,

O wilt thou give me rest !
Ye mustering thunders from above

Your willing victim see!
But spare, and pardon my fause love,

His wrangs to heaven and me!

The silver moon's enamour'd beam,

Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,

And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go balmy sleep,

('Tis where you've seldom been,)
May's vigil while the shepherds keep

With Kate of Aberdeen.
Upon the green the virgins wait,

In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbar her golden gate,

And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,

The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,

As Kate of Aberdeen,
Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love:
And see the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:
Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.
Now lightsome o'er the level mead,

Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,

Or tune the reed to love :
For see! the rosy May draws nigh;

She claims a virgin queen;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. *

*“ Kate of Aberdeen is, I believe, the work of poor ConNINGHAM, the player; of whom the following anecdote deserves a recital. A fat dignitary of the church coming past CUNNINGHam one Sunday, as the poor poet was busy plying a fishing-rod in some stream near Durham, his reverence reprimanded CunNINGHAM very severely for such an occupation on such a day. The poor poet, with that inoffensive gentleness of manners which


TUNE" Whistle o'er the lave o't.”
FIRST when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married-spier nae mair-

Whistle o'er the lave o't.
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child,
-Wiser men than me's beguild;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we gree,
I care na by how few may see;

Whistle o'er the lave o't.
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,
I could write-but Meg maun see't-

Whistle o'er the lave o't.

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TUNE_" Morneen I Gaberland." BLYTHE was the time when he fee'd wi' my father, 0,Happy war the days when we herded thegither, 0, Sweet war the hours when he row't me in his plaidie, 0, An' vow't to be mine, my dear Highland laddie, O;

was his peculiar characteristic, replied, that he hoped God and his reverence would forgive his seeming profanity of that sacred day, • as he had no dinner to eat, but what lay at the bottom of that pool!" "_BURNS.

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