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Te cannon an' te pluff trakoon,
Sore proke her rank an' pore her toon,
Her nain sell ne'er cot sic a stoon,

As Cot shall answer me, man.


Pig Satan sent te plan frae hell,
Or put our chiefs peside hersell,
To plant tem on te open fell,

pase artillery's ee, man.
For had she met te gruesome Tuke
At ford of Spey or Prae-Calrook,
Te ploot of every foreign pouk

Had dyed te Cherman sea, man.

She fought for all she loved or had, And for te right; put Heavin forpade, And mony a bonny Heelant lad

Lay pleeding on te prae, man. Fat could she too, fat could she say? Te crand M‘Tonald was away, And her nown chief tat luckless tay

Pe far peyond Dunvey, man.

MʻPherson and M'Gregor poth,
Te men of Moidart and Glen-quoich,
And cood MʻKenzies of te Doich,

All absent from te field, man.
Te sorde was sharp, te arm was true,
Pe honour still her nainsell's tue,
Impossibles she cou'd not do,

Though laith she pe to yield, man.

When Sharles first wi' the flighters met,
Praif lad, he thought us pack to ket,
“ Turn, turn,” he cry't, “ and face tem yet,

We'll conquer, or we'll tee, man!”
Put her nainsell shumpit owre te purn,
And sweart pe Cot she wudna turn,
For ter was nought put shoot and purn,

And hanging on te tree, man.

Fie, ploody Tuke, fat ail't her ten,
To rafage every Heelant glen ?
Her crime was truth, and lofe to ane,

She had no hate at tee, man.

And you,


yours, will yet pe klad To trust te honest Heelant lad; Te ponnit plue and pelted plaid

Will stand te last of tree, man.


WRITTEN in 1811. All the pieces which I wrote at that age have a melody in them, which, since that period, I have never been able to reach ; but they are often deficient in real stamina.

Arise, arise, thou queen of Love,

Thy bed is chill'd with evening dew
Thy robe the virgin fays have wove,

And rear'd thy canopy of blue.
O, let me see thy golden breast,

Thy amber halo o'er the hill,
And all the chambers of the west

Thy coronal with glory fill.

O, come—the evening colours fade,

Soft silence broods o'er lawn and lee; And beauty in the greenwood shade,

Uplifts a longing eye for thee. Thy temple be this silvan bower,

Where wounded lovers kneel confest; Thine altar-cloth the daisy flower,

Thy tabernacle, beauty's breast.

Be this thy dearest, holiest shrine,

Thy breviary two beaming eyes;
And aye I'll pant to see thee shine-

Beloved star, arise, arise!
As slowly steals an angel's wing,

Thy light pavilion down the sky;
Before thee let young seraphs sing

The softest love-sick melody.

And here, on thy beloved shrine,

Where fragrant flowers of incense glow, Pure as that heavenly breast of thine,

And fairer than the virgin snow ;

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