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Wi' ane wha now was cauld in death : I lookit round wi' watery ee,
Hope wasna there—but I was laith To see my little bairnies dee.
Just as the breeze the aspen stirr’d,
And bore aslant the falling dew, I thought I heard a bonny bird
Singing amid the air sae blue
It was a lay that did renew The hope deep sunk in misery ;
It was of ane my waes that knew, And some kind hearts that cared for me.
( sweet as breaks the rising day,
Or sunbeam through the wavy rain, Fell on my soul the cheering lay
Was it an angel pour'd the strain ?
Whoe'er has kend a' mother's pain, Bent o'er the babe upon her knee,
O they will bless, and bless again The generous hearts that cared for me!
I LOOKIT EAST, I LOOKIT WEST.
A cot was rear'd by Mercy's hand,
Amid the dreary wilderness;
A shelter to forlorn distress.
And weel I ken that Heaven will bless
The heart that issued the decree;
The widow and the fatherless
Can never pray, and slighted be.
Very touching, James, indeed. You are a tragic poet after Aristotle's own heart; for well you know how to purge the soul by pity and terror.
Ay, that I do, sir; an' by a sorts of odd humour too. Snap your thumbs.—NocTES AMBROSIANÆ, No. XXVIII.
Some explanation is necessary still towards the understanding of the above song. It was written many years ago, at the joint request of Mr Galt and some other literary friends, for singing at the first meeting of some benevolent society in London, the denomination of which I have forgot; but it was for
the purpose of relieving the wives and families of Scottish soldiers who had fallen in our sanguine wars abroad. was well received, having been sung by professional singers to the Scottish air of “ The Birks of Invermay."
THE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE.
Stop, stop, Beelzebub, and read aloud that bit of paper you have in your fist.
Lord sauf us, what a voice! They're my ain verses, too. Whisht, whisht 1
BEELZEBUB sings “ The Great Muckle Village of Bal
maquhapple,” to the tune of “ The Sodger Laddie.”
D'ye ken the big village of Balmaqubapple,
Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo’ks,
“O, blessed St Andrew, if e'er ye could pity fo’k,
“There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye,