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I neither hae father nor mither,

Sage counsel or caution to gie;
An' prudence has whisper'd me never

To gang to the brakens wi' thee.”

Dear lassie, how can ye upbraid me,

An' try your ain love to beguile ? For ye are the richest young lady

That ever gaed o’er the kirk-stile. Your smile, that is blither than ony,

The bend o' your cheerfu' eebree, An' the sweet blinks o’ love there sae bonny,

Are five hunder thousand to me!

She turn'd her around, an' said, smiling,

While the tear in her blue eye shone clear, “ You're welcome, kind sir, to your mailing,

For, O, you hae valued it dear :
Gae make out the lease, do not linger,

Let the parson indorse the decree;
An' then, for a wave o' your finger,

I'll gang to the brakens wi' thee!”

There's joy in the bright blooming feature,

When love lurks in every young line ; There's joy in the beauties of nature,

There's joy in the dance and the wine : But there's a delight will ne'er perish,

'Mang pleasures all fleeting an' vain,

And that is to love and to cherish

The fond little heart that's our ain !


Was written as a per contra to Mr Moore's song to the same air. But either he or his publishers, or both, set up their birses, and caused it and a great many more to be cancelled,—the most ridiculous of all things, in my opinion, I ever knew. It was manifestly because they saw mine were the best. Let them take that! as Gideon Laidlaw said when the man died who had cheated him.

The Minstrel Boy to the glen is gone,

In its deepest dells you'll find him,
Where echoes sing to his music's tone,

And fairies listen behind him.
He sings of nature all in her prime,

Of sweets that around him hover,
Of mountain heath and moorland thyme,

And trifles that tell the lover.

How wildly sweet is the minstrels lay,

Through cliffs and wild woods ringing, For, ah! there is love to beacon his way,

And hope in the song he's singing! The bard may indite, and the minstrel sing,

And maidens may chorus it rarely ; But unless there be love in the heart within,

The ditty will charm but sparely.


This Jacobite song is set to an old Highland melody, by the late Mr R. A. Smith, to whom the vocal melodies of Scotland are more indebted than to any man that ever existed. The

song itself was composed from a scrap of a translation in prose of what Mrs Fraser said was a Gaelic song.

FAREWELL to Glen-Shalloch,

A farewell for ever !

Farewell to my wee cot

That stands by the river !
The fall is loud sounding

In voices that vary,
And the echoes surrounding

Lament with my Mary.

I saw her last night,

'Mid the rocks that enclose them, With a child at her knee,

And a child at her bosom:

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