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There, at the last crow of the brown heather-cock, They pray'd for their prince, kneeld, and slept on the


“ O tell me, auld carle, what will be the fate
Of those who are killing the gallant and great ;
Who force our brave chiefs to the correi to go,
And hunt their own prince like the deer or the roe?
I know it, auld carle, as sure as yon sun
Shines over our heads, that the deeds they have done
To those who are braver and better than they,
There's one in this world or the next will repay!"

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Has nothing to recommend it, save that it is set to an original air by Bishop, with very fine accompaniments.

YE breezes that spring in some land unknown,
Or sleep on your clouds of the eider down,
Come over the mountain and over the dale,
More sweet than Arabia's spicy gale!
Come over the heath-flower's purple bloom,
And gather the birk’s and the thyme's perfume!
For these are the sweets that bring no alloy
To dark Caledonia's mountain joy.

But 0, thou breeze of the valley and bill!
Thou canst bring a richer offering still:
The kindly wish from the hall and the cot,
And the poor man's blessing, that's never forgot,

The shepherd's proud boast over every degree,
And the song of the maiden the dearest to me.
Come laden with these, thou breeze of the hill !
Anđthe lay of the Minstrel shall hail thee still.

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Was written long ago to a boat-song that I heard in the Highlands, sung by the rowers. It is a short cross measure, -one of those to which it is impossible to compose good or flowing verses, but, when sung, is very sweet. It has since been set in modern style by Bishop. See Goulding and D’Almaine's Select Scottish Melodies.

Come rowe the boat, rowe the boat,
Ply to the pibroch's note,
Steer for yon lonely cot

O’er the wild main;
For there waits my dearie,
Both lonesome and eery,
And sorely she'll weary

To hear our bold strain.

Then rowe for her lover,
And play, boys, to move her,
The tide-stream is over,

And mild blows the gale.

I see her a-roaming
Like swan in the gloaming,
Or angel a-coming

Her Ronald to hail !

The deer of Ben-Aitley
Is comely and stately,
As tall and sedately

She looks o'er the dale

The sea-bird rides sprightly
O'er billows so lightly,
Or boldly and brightly

Floats high on the gale.

But O, my dear Mary,
What heart can compare thee
With aught in the valley,

The mountain, or tide ?
All nature looks dreary

When thou art not near me,

But lovely and dearly

When thou’rt by my side.

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