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That Whigs in their error

May quake for terror,
To see our array in the morning.

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Was published lately in Fraser's Magazine, and received with higher encomiums than it deserved. It was written in the character of a disconsolate parent, whose desolate condition I witnessed; but, Heaven be thanked, as yet having no relation to any breach in my own family. Many of my warm and sincere friends were alarmed at seeing it, and condoled with me; but to such I answer, as I have done already, that if such poetical licenses were not allowable, what a limited hold the bard would occupy!—This song has been set to music both in Scotland and England. It is said that a Mr Ebsworth, an accomplished musician in Edinburgh, has set it beautifully.

I HAE naebody now, I hae naebody now
To meet me upon


Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow,

An' joy in her deep blue een;
Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile,

An' the dance o' the lightsome fay,
An' the wee bit tale o' news the while

That had happen'd when I was away.

I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now

To clasp to my bosom at even,
O’er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,

pray for a blessing from heaven An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face

In the morning that met my eye, Where are they now, where are they now?

In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.

There's naebody kens, there's naebody kens,

An' O may they never prove, That sharpest degree o' agony

For the child o' their earthly love-
To see a flower in its vernal hour

By slow degrees decay,
Then calmly aneath the hand o' death

Breathe its sweet soul away.

0 dinna break, my poor auld heart,

Nor at thy loss repine,
For the unseen hand that threw the dart

Was sent frae her Father and thine;

Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,

Even till my latest day, For though my darling can never return,

I can follow the sooner away.

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Was written, at the suggestion of Mr George Thomson, on the return of that gallant regiment from Waterloo, and harmonized beautifully by him to the old air bearing the name of the regiment. It is to be found, I think, in Mr Thomson's first volume, small edition.

Old Scotia! wake thy mountain strain,

In all its wildest splendours,
And welcome back the lads again,

Your honour's dear defenders.
Be every harp and viol strung,

Till all the woodlands quaver ;
Of many a band your bards have sung,
But never hail'd a braver.
Raise high the pibroch, Donald Bane,

We're all in key to cheer it;
And let it be a martial strain,

That warriors bold may hear it.

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