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ANOTHER of the proscribed M‘Gregors; but here he is again, and sung to the well-known old air of “ The Dandy 0.”

Go home, go home to your rest, young man,
The sky looks cold in the west, young man ;

For should we rove

Through Morna's grove,
A noontide walk is the best, young man;
Go sleep, the heavens look pale, young man,
And sighs are heard in the gale, young man:

A walk in the night,

By the dim moonlight,
A maiden might chance to bewail,

young man !

When all the world's awake, young man,
A proffer of love I may take, young man;

But the star of truth,

The guide of my youth,
Never pointed to midnight wake, young man.
Go sleep till rise of the sun, young man,
The sage's eye to shun, young man ;

For he's watching the flight

Of demons to-night, And may happen to take thee for one, young man!


I HAVE been sorely blamed by some friends for a sentiment expressed in this song; but I have always felt it painfully that the name of SCOTLAND, the superior nation in every thing but wealth, should be lost, not in Britain, for that is proper, but in England. In all dispatches we are denominated the English, forsooth! We know ourselves, however, that we are not English, nor ever intend to be. This song is finely set by H. R. Bishop, in one of the Musical Bijous.

OLD harp of the Highlands, how long hast thou slumber'a

In cave of the correi, ungarnish'd, unstrung! Thy minstrels no more with thy heroes are number'd,

Or deeds of thy heroes no more dare be sung. A seer late heard, from thy cavern ascending,

A low sounding chime, as of sorrow and dole, Some spirit unseen on the relic attending,

Thus sung the last strain of the warrior's soul :

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?

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My country, farewell ! for the murmụrs 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 !"


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

When Maggy gangs away?
There's no a heart in a' the glen

That disna dread the day.
O what will a' the lads do

When Maggy gangs away?

Young Jock has ta’en the hill forte

A waefu' wight is he;
Poor Harry's ta'en the bed for't,

An' laid him down to dee;

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