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Go round, my wheel, round
With ceaseless thrumming sound,

He for whom the badge I twine,

Of a 'kerchief pure and fine,
Loves a heart in virtue drest,
Better than the gaudiest breast.





O Harp ! that cheer'd my trembling limbs,
O’er many a pathless, rugged wild ;
O Muse! that erst so fondly smil'd
On fancy's lov'd poetic child,

tion or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or our admiration, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or praiseworthy on such characters or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His instances of these qualities, too, like our German author, are commonly selected from humble life; and there is no reader of poetry in this country whose heart has not beat with a livelier pulse in favour of honest and undisguised conduct, when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole of the song,

“Is there for honest poverty,"

and in many other productions of this powerful author. I have only to regret that I have not been able to give them, in my poor version, the thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the immortal verse of the original author."

Farewell for aye : a salt tear dims
The eye that never wept before ;
Our mortal pilgrimage is o'er,
And now we part to meet no more !

Our lay of joy is past and gone, That once in vaulted halls we sung ; Alas ! our final peal hath rung Of mirth, high dames and lords among :

And now we gaze with sadness on The narrow home where song must end ; There no merry lays ascend Where my feeble footsteps wend.

Here on this oak that bourgeons fair, I'll hang thy wires of witching tone ; The passing breeze will cause them moan, And swell my requiem when I'm gone.

The traveller faint will list’ning stare, And marvel whence thy sounds proceed, The fairy king in buxom weed, Will leave his dance to hear thy rede.

But chief of all, the love-lorn maid, When dusky twilight clouds the sky, Eluding watchful guardian's eye Towards this sacred spot will hie.

Beneath thy oaks' embow'ring shade She'll muse, and count each straggling ray The moon sheds on its lovely way, Along thy frame of silvery grey.

She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale,
Rise sweetly in thy midnight song,
Now, rapid roll, full ton'd, and strong,
Now, low and dying, weep along.

Oh ! she will hear thee oft bewail
The fate of lovers true, and tell,
How many an evil tide befell
Maids, who have lov'd but all too well.

The steel-clad knight as home he wends, From battle toils, and sieges dire, Will pause, and check his courser's fire, And under thy old oak retire :

For, lo ! thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze ; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities.

O Harp ! be still a little while,
Nor wake thy dirge of melting numbers,
Stay till thy master calmly slumbers,
Where no bale his bliss encumbers.

Now, take with thee his last faint smile,
And benison, in death's arms given,
Oh now begin thy mournful steven,
And waft my soul on it to heaven !

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A coggie o' ale, and a pickle ait meal,
Adown the green dell, near the Abbey's

Again rejoicing nature sees,
Again the happy day returns,

Ah! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell,
All in the merry Whitsuntide,
All white hang the bushes o'er Elaw's sweet stream,
Amid Loch-Catrine's scenery wild,
A moment pause, ye British fair,
And art thou gone, for ever gone,
And can thy bosom bear the thought,
And has she then fail'd in her truth,

As I came in by our gate end,
At the close of the day in the sacred Aisle,
Auld Marget, in the fauld she sits,

Auld Rob, the laird o' muckle land,
Away! let nought to love displeasing,



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Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,

Blow on, ye wild winds, o'er his hallowed

Blythely I hae screwed my pipes,
By the side of a mountain, o'ershadowed with trees,

W'. M'Laren, 332




Can a crown give content,
Claudine lived contented, and peace was her lot,
Columbia ! Columbia ! to glory arise,
Come live with me, and be my love,
Come o'er the sea,
Coup sent a challenge frae Dunbar,

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Faintly as tolls the evening chime,

Fair dream of my slumber, sad thoughts of my waking,
Far lone amang the highland hills,
Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer,
Farewell, oh sweet hope! I have wept thee in sadness,
For many a wistful hour to pity dear,

From his booth on the hill, the sad shepherd retires,
From my slumber I woke at the dead hour of



384 W. Reader, Tannahill, 439 Byron,

142 M.A.R.,


298 Robt. Glassforl, 175

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Gie mc a lass wi' a lump o' land,
Gloomy winter's now awa',
Glowing with love, on fire for fame,
Go, lovely rose !
Go round, my wheel, go round,


23 Tannahill, 383 From Paul's Letters," 431 note B. Waller, 282 note Gott. Aug. Burder, 440

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Happy the world in that blest age,

356 Have you not seen the timid tear, .


333 Have you sailed on the breast of the deep,

Blackwood's Mag., 392 Here, beneath this willow sleepeth,

Mrs Opie, . 134 Her hair was like the Cromla mist,

R. Allan, 22 Her kiss was soft and sweet,

James. Yool, 34 Here's to them that's awa,

note Burns,

265 Here's to thy health, my bonny lass,


68 How ardently my bosom glows,

James Yool, 56 How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine,

280 How green the fields, the flowers how fair,

note Patie Birnie, 289 How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom,






I come in the morn, I come in the hour,
I found the warrior on the plain,
If that the world and love were young,
I have known what it was to be happy and gay,
In Buttermere's woods and wilds among,
In summer when nature her mantle displays,
In summer when the hay was mawn,



227 Sir W. Raleigh, 415 James Yool, 109 R. Allan, 32 John Sim,

8 Burns,



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