Although the Irish Harp were won,

And England's Roses all o'errun,

'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and gun, We'll form a bulwark round him!

THE BROOM SAE GREEN

Is my greatest favourite at present,-probably because the air is my own, as well as the verses; for I find I have a particular facility in approving of such things. It is beautifully set by Bishop, in Goulding and D'Almaine's Select Scottish Melodies.

LANG I sat by the broom sae green,
An' O, my heart was eerie!

For aye this strain was breathed within,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
Lie still, thou wee bit fluttering thing,
What means this weary wavering?
Nae heart returns thy raptured spring,
Your laddie will no come near ye!

His leifu' sang the robin sung

On the bough that hung sae near me,
Wi' tender grief my heart was wrung,
For O, the strain was dreary!

The robin's sang it coudnae be

That gart the tear-drap blind my ee;
How ken'd the wee bird on the tree

That my laddie wad no come near me?

The new-wean'd lamb on yonder lea
It bleats out through the braken,
The herried bird upon the tree

Mourns o'er its nest forsaken ;

If they are wae, how weel may I?
Nae grief like mine aneath the sky,
The lad I lo'e he cares nae by

Though my fond heart is breaking!

FLORA MACDONALD'S FAREWELL

WAS composed to an air handed me by the late lamented Niel Gow, junior. He said it was an ancient Skye air, but afterwards told me it was his own. When I first heard the song sung by Mr Morison, I never was so agreeably astonished, -I could hardly believe my senses that I had made so good a song without knowing it.

FAR over yon hills of the heather sae green,

An' down by the correi that sings to the sea, The bonny young Flora sat sighing her lane, The dew on her plaid, and the tear in her ee. She look'd at a boat wi' the breezes that swung Away on the wave, like a bird of the main, An' aye as it lessen'd, she sigh'd and she sung, Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again! Fareweel to my hero, the gallant an' young,

Fareweel to the lad I shall ne'er see again!

The moorcock that craws on the brows of Ben-Connal,

He kens of his bed in a sweet mossy hame;
The eagle that soars o'er the cliffs of Clan-Ronald,
Unawed and unhunted, his eyry can claim;

The solan can sleep on the shelve of the shore,
The cormorant roost on his rock of the sea,
But, ah! there is one whose hard fate I deplore,
Nor house, ha', nor hame, in his country has he-
The conflict is past, and our name is no more-

There's nought left but sorrow for Scotland and me!

The target is torn from the arm of the just,

The helmet is cleft on the brow of the brave, The claymore for ever in darkness must rust,

But red is the sword of the stranger and slave; The hoof of the horse, and the foot of the proud,

Have trod o'er the plumes on the bonnet of blue ! Why slept the red bolt in the breast of the cloud

When tyranny revell'd in blood of the true? Fareweel, my young hero, the gallant and good! The crown of thy fathers is torn from thy brow!