Far other shone fair Freedom's band,
Far other was th' immortal stand,

When Hampden fought for thee:
They snatch'd from rapine's gripe thy spoils,
The fruits and prize of glorious toils,
Of arts and industry.

On thee yet foams the preacher's rage,
On thee fierce frowns th' historian's page,
A false apostate train :

Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb ;
Unpitied in their harder doom,

Thy thousands strow the plain.

These had no charms to please the sense, No graceful port, no eloquence,

To win the Muse's throng:
Unknown, unsung, unmark'd they lie
But Cæsar's fate o'ercasts the sky,
And Nature mourns his wrong.

Thy foes, a frontless band, invade ;
Thy friends afford a timid aid,

And yield up half the right.
E'en Locke beams forth a mingled ray,
Afraid to pour the flood of day

On man's too feeble sight.
Hence are the motley systems framed,
Of right transferr'd, of power reclaim'd;
Distinctions weak and vain.
Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd;
For unreclaim'd, and untransferr'd,
Her powers and rights remain.

While law the royal agent moves,
The instrument thy choice approves,

We bow through him to you.

But change, or cease the inspiring choice, The sov'reign sinks a private voice,

Alike in one, or few!

Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part,

And only dares betray, With reptile wiles, alas! prevail, Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail, To pilfer power away?

O shall the bought, and buying tribe,
The slaves who take, and deal the bribe,
A people's claims enjoy ?

So Indian murd'rers hope to gain
The powers and virtues of the slain,
Of wretches they destroy.

"Avert it, Heaven! you love the brave,
You hate the treach'rous, willing slave,
The self-devoted head;

Nor shall an hireling's voice convey
That sacred prize to lawless sway,
For which a nation bled."

Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource! Directing reason, active force,

Propitious heaven bestows.

But ne'er shall flame the tund'ring sky, To aid the trembling herd that fly

Before their weaker foes.

In names there dwell no magic charms,
The British virtues, British arms

Unloosed our fathers' band:

Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail, What names, what ancestors avail,

To save a sinking land?

Far, far from us such ills shall be, Mankind shall boast one nation free,

One monarch truly great : Whose title speaks a people's choice, Whose sovereign will a people's voice, Whose strength a prosp'rous state.

Earl Nugent.-Born 1709, Died 1788.

1045.-WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.

The bride cam' out o' the byre,

And, O, as she dighted her cheeks!
Sirs, I'm to be married the night,
And have neither blankets nor sheets;
Have neither blankets nor sheets,

Nor scarce a coverlet too;

The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado.

Woo'd, and married, and a',

Married, and woo'd, and a'!
And was she nae very weel off,

That was woo'd, and married, and a'?

Out spake the bride's father,

As he cam' in frae the pleugh: O, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether,

And our braw bawsint yade, Will carry ye hame your cornWhat wad ye be at, ye jade?

Out spake the bride's mither,

What deil needs a' this pride ? I had nae a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsy-woolsy, And ne'er a sark ava; And ye hae ribbons and buskins, Mae than ane or twa. *

Out spake the bride's brither,
As he cam' in wi' the kye:
Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta’en ye,
Had he kent ye as weel as I;
For ye're baith proud and saucy,
And no for a poor man's wife;

Gin I canna get a better,

I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.

Alex. Ross.-Born 1698, Died 1784.

1046.-MARY'S DREAM.

The moon had climb'd the highest hill
Which rises o'er the source of Dee,
And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tower and tree;
When Mary laid her down to sleep,

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea, When, soft and low, a voice was heard, Saying, "Mary, weep no more for me!"

She from her pillow gently raised

Her head, to ask who there might be,
And saw young Sandy shivering stand,
With visage pale, and hollow ee.
"O Mary dear, cold is my clay;

It lies beneath a stormy sea.
Far, far from thee I sleep in death;
So, Mary, weep no more for me!
Three stormy nights and stormy days
We toss'd upon the raging main;
And long we strove our bark to save,
But all our striving was in vain.
Even then, when horror chill'd my blood,
My heart was fill'd with love for thee:
The storm is past, and I at rest;

So, Mary, weep no more for me!

O maiden dear, thyself prepare ;

We soon shall meet upon that shore, Where love is free from doubt and care, And thou and I shall part no more! Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled, No more of Sandy could she see; But soft the passing spirit said, "Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!" Alex. Ross.-Born 1698, Died 1784.

1047.-AULD ROBIN GRAY.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,

And a' the warld to sleep are gane;

The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my

ee,

When my gudeman lies sound by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and socht me for his bride;

But saving a croun, he had naething else beside;

To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea;

And the croun and the pund were baith for

me.

He hadna been awa a week but only twa, When my mother she fell sick, and the cow

was stown awa;

My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at

the sea,

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me.

My heart it said nay, for I look'd for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck;

The ship it was a wreck-why didna Jamie dee?

Or why do I live to say, Wae's me?

My father argued sair: my mother didna speak;

But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;

Sae they gied him my hand, though my heart was in the sea;

And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he,

Till he said, "I'm come back for to marry thee."

Oh, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say;

We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away:

I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to dee;

And why do I live to say, Wae's me?

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;

I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;

But I'll do my best a gude wife to be,
For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.
Lady Anne Barnard.-Born 1750, Died 1825.

1048. THE FLOWERS OF THE
FOREST.

I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green
loaning-

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and . sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;

At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming,

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;

But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede

away.

Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the foremost,

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe milking,

Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaningThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Miss Jane Elliot.-About 1740.

1049.-THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've seen the smiling

Of Fortune beguiling;

I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing,

Kind its caressing;

But now 'tis fled-fled far away.

I've seen the forest

Adorned the foremost

With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and

gay;

Sae bonnie was their blooming!
Their scent the air perfuming!

But now they are wither'd and weede away.

I've seen the morning

With gold the hills adorning,

And loud tempest storming before the midday.

I've seen Tweed's silver streams,
Shining in the sunny beams,

Grow drumly and dark as he row'd on his

way.

Oh, fickle Fortune,

Why this cruel sporting?

Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?
Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,
Nae mair your frowns can fear me ;

For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Mrs. Cockburn.-Born 1679, Died 1749.

1050.-TULLOCHGORUM.

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folks to chide

For what's been done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whigmegmorum. Let Whig and Tory all agree To spend this night with mirth and glee, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me

The reel of Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we 's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.
There need na be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorums.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fear of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,

Like auld Philosophorum?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
And canna rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum ?

1053-THE FARMER'S INGLE.

Whan gloamin grey out owre the welkin keeks;

Whan Batie ca's his owsen to the byre; Whan Thrasher John, sair dung, his barndoor steeks,

An' lusty lasses at the dightin' tire; What bangs fu' leal the e'enin's coming cauld,

An' gars snaw-tappit Winter freeze in vain ;

Gars dowie mortals look baith blithe an' bauld,

Nor fley'd wi' a' the poortith o' the plain; Begin, my Muse! and chaunt in hamely strain.

Frae the big stack, weel winnow't on the hill, Wi' divots theekit frae the weet an' drift; Sods, peats, and heathery turfs the chimley fill,

An' gar their thickening smeek salute the lift.

The gudeman, new come hame, is blithe to find,

Whan he out owre the hallan flings his een, That ilka turn is handled to his mind;

That a' his housie looks sae cosh an' clean; For cleanly house lo'es he, though e'er sae

mean.

Weel kens the gudewife, that the pleughs require

A heartsome meltith, and refreshin' synd O' nappy liquor, owre a bleezin' fire:

Sair wark an' poortith downa weel be join'd. Wi' butter'd bannocks now the girdle reeks; I' the far nook the bowie briskly reams; The readied kail stands by the chimley cheeks, An' haud the riggin' het wi' welcome streams,

Whilk than the daintiest kitchen nicer

seems.

Frae this, lat gentler gabs a lesson lear:

Wad they to labouring lend an eident hand, They'd rax fell strang upo' the simplest fare, Nor find their stamacks ever at a stand. Fu' hale an' healthy wad they pass the day; At night, in calmest slumbers dose fu' sound;

Nor doctor need their weary life to spae,

Nor drogs their noddle and their sense confound,

Till death slip sleely on, an' gie the hindmost wound.

On sicken food has mony a doughty deed
By Caledonia's ancestors been done;
By this did mony a wight fu' weirlike bleed
In brulzies frae the dawn to set o' sun.
Twas this that braced their gardies stiff an'
strang;

That bent the deadly yew in ancient days; Laid Denmark's daring sons on yird alang;

Garr'd Scotish thristles bang the Roman bays;

For near our crest their heads they dought na raise.

The couthy cracks begin whan supper's owre;
The cheering bicker gars them glibly gash
O' Simmer's showery blinks, an' Winter's

sour,

Whase floods did erst their mailin's produce hash.

'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on ; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride;

An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son,
Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride;
The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to
bide.

The fient a cheep 's amang the bairnies now; For a' their anger's wi' their hunger gane : Ay maun the childer, wi' a fastin' mou,

Grumble an' greet, an' mak an unco maen. In rangles round, before the ingle's low, Frae gudame's mouth auld warld tales they hear,

O' warlocks loupin round the wirrikow: O' ghaists, that win in glen an kirkyard drear,

Whilk touzles a' their tap, an' gars them shake wi' fear!

For weel she trows, that fiends an' fairies be Sent frae the deil to fleetch us to our ill; That ky hae tint their milk wi' evil ee;

An' corn been scowder'd on the glowin' kiln.

O mock nae this, my friends! but rather

mourn,

Ye in life's brawest spring wi' reason clear; Wi' eild our idle fancies a' return,

And dim our dolefu' days wi' bairnly fear; The mind's ay cradled whan the grave is

near.

Yet Thrift, industrious, bides her latest days, Though Age her sair-dow'd front wi' runcles

wave;

Yet frae the russet lap the spindle plays;

Her e'enin stent reels she as weel's the lave.

On some feast-day, the wee things buskit braw,

Shall heese her heart up wi' a silent joy,
Fu' cadgie that her head was up an' saw
Her ain spun cleedin' on a darlin' oy;
Careless though death shou'd mak the feast
her foy.

In its auld lerroch yet the deas remains,
Where the gudeman aft streeks him at his

ease;

A warm and canny lean for weary banes
O' labourers doylt upo' the wintry leas.
Round him will baudrins an' the collie come,
To wag their tail, and cast a thankfu' ee.
To him wha kindly flings them mony a crum