"My country, farewell! for the days are expired On which I could hallow the deeds of the free; Thy heroes have all to new honours aspired, They fight, but they fight not for Scotia nor me. All lost is our sway, and the name of our nation Is sunk in the name of our old mortal foe; Then why should the lay of our last degradation Be forced from the harp of old Ossian to flow? My country, farewell! for the murmurs of sorrow Alone the dark mountains of Scotia become; Her sons condescend from new models to borrow, And voices of strangers prevail in the hum. Before the smooth face of our Saxon invaders Is quench'd the last ray in the eye of the free; Then, oh! let me rest in the caves of my fathers, Forgetful of them as forgetful of thee!" WHEN MAGGY GANGS AWAY. A VERY different strain from the foregoing. I heard a girl lilting over the first line to my little daughter Maggy, and forthwith went in and made a song of it.—It is set to a lively old strain by Bishop, and is beginning to be a favourite. O WHAT Will a' the lads do When Maggy gangs away? O what will a' the lads do There's no a heart in a' the glen O what will a' the lads do Young Jock has ta'en the hill for't A waefu' wight is he; Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't, An' laid him down to dee; An' Sandy's gane unto the kirk, And, O, what will the lads do The young laird o' the Lang-Shaw The priest has said-in confidence- And that is mair in maiden's praise But, O, what will the lads do The wailing in our green glen "Twill draw the redbreast frae the wood, The laverock frae the sky; The fairies frae their beds o' dew Will rise an' join the lay: An' hey! what a day will be When Maggy gangs away! A FATHER'S LAMENT. A YOUNG friend of mine, whom I greatly admired for every manly and amiable virtue, was cut off suddenly in the flower of his age, (Mr R- An.) The next time that I visited the family, his parent's distress and expressions of fond remembrance affected me so deeply, that I composed the following verses in his character. I likewise composed an air for it, which I thought adapted to the words. It is finely set by Bishop, in his Select Melodies. How can you bid this heart be blithe, When blithe this heart can never be? I've lost the jewel from my crown Look round our circle, and you'll see Ay, there's a blank at my right hand, 'Tis said as water wears the rock, That time wears out the deepest line; It may be true wi' hearts enow, But never can apply to mine. For I have learn'd to know and feelThough losses should forgotten be— That still the blank at my right hand Can never be made up to me! I blame not Providence's sway, Enjoy the same, whate'er betide. Can never be made up to me! |