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This song was written to a cramp air sent me by Smith. It is, however, very beautiful and pathetic.

Why weeps yon Highland maid
Over the tartan plaid-
Is it a pledge of care,

Or are the blood drops there?
Tell me, thou hind of humble seeming,
Why the tears on her cheek are gleaming,

Why should the young and fair
Thus weep unpitied there?

Stranger, that Highland plaid
Low in the dust was laid;

He who the relic wore,

He is, alas ! no more:
He and his loyal clan were trodden
Down by slaves on dark Culloden.

Well o'er a lover's pall,
Well may the teardrops fall!

Where now her clansman true,

Where is the bonnet blue,

Where the claymore that broke

Fearless through fire and smoke ?
Not one gleam by glen or river,
It lies dropp'd from the hand for ever.

Stranger, our fate deplore,
Our ancient name's no more!


I have nothing to tell about this one at all; for I do not remember aught about it, save that I think it is in one of the Musical Bijous.

My Emma, my darling, from winter's domain
Let us fly to the glee of the city again,
Where a day never wakes but some joy it renews,
And a night never falls but that joy it pursues ;
Where the dance is so light, and the hall is so bright,
And life wbirls onward one round of delight.
Would we feel that we love and have spirits refined,
We must mix with the world, and enjoy humankind.

Mute nature is lovely in earth and in sky,
It cheers the lone heart and enlivens the eye;
But nowhere can beauty and dignity shine,
So as in the human face fair and divine.

'Mongst these could I love thee, and that love enjoy,
But, ah! in the wilderness fond love would cloy ;
To the homes of our kindred our spirits must cling,
And away from their bosoms at last take their wing !


Consists here only of the singing verses of a long ballad which I wrote many years ago, in the house of Mr Aitken, then living at Dunbar. The original ballad is to be found printed in some work, but where I know not. The air is my own, but I cannot boast much of it: it is rather humdrum. It was first arranged by young Gow, and latterly by Dewar, in Mr Purdie's edition of the Border Garland.

LiE still, my love, lie still and sleep,

Long is thy night of sorrow;
Thy maiden of the mountain deep

Shall meet thee on the morrow.
But 0, when shall that morrow be,

When my true love shall waken,
When shall we meet, refined and free,

Amid the moorland braken?

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