gallant though unfortunate house of Stuart, the kings of our fathers for so many heroic ages, is a theme much more interesting than

*

resentment of the guilty great, or their descendants. Thou mightest then have rolled in affluence, and ceased to struggle under the insulting taunts of every little upstart in office. Thou mightest have flourished in thy day, and left behind thee an offspring securely treading the path of honours and preferment, instead of leaving thy wife and children poor and pennyless, at the mercy of the world.-All this thou mightest have done; but then thou would'st not have been a poet. Thy mantle has indeed been claimed by the first of a new order of poets, who has done all that thou would'st have disdained to do. The world has seen with astonishment, the solid treasures realized by the speculating muse; but the meretricious laurel will soon wither around the wearer's brow, and succeeding generations will turn with contempt from the cold and the courtly strain.

I do not mean to say that poetry and prudence are altogether incompatible; but that prudence which would stifle the feelings which should glow in every manly bosom, can never exist with true and genuine poetry. The prudence that would suppress the indignant strain of a Campbell at the horrors of Warsaw, or at the cries of the helpless women and children of our American brethren mangled and murdered by Savages, spurred on by cold and unfeeling politicians;-the prudence that could see unmoved the smoking villages and unhallowed butchery which followed in the train of Culloden, the unsophisticated muse will ever disdain. He can never be a poet who does not feel as a man.-Ed.

JAMIE GAY.

JAMIE Gay is another and a tolerable AngloScotish piece.

MY DEAR JOCKIE.

ANOTHER Anglo-Scotish production.

FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' 'STRAE.

IT is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name, or phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by.

To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and all that ever I heard :—

the

song

Gin ye meet a bonie lassie,

Gie her a kiss and let her gae;
But gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,
Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her,
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae :
An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,
Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap,*
Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw,
O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap,
As high as ony Roman wa'.

*This spirited imitation of the " Vides ut alta stet nive candidum, Soracte," of Horace, is considered as one of the happiest efforts of the author's genius.-For a very elegant critique on the poem, and a comparison of its merits with those of the ori ginal, the reader is referred to Lord Woodhouselee's Remarks on the Writings of Ramsay, vol. i. p. 98. London, 1800.

Driving their baws frae whins or tee,
There's no nae gowfers to be seen;
Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee

1

The byass-bouls on Tamson's green.

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs,
And beek the house baith butt and ben;
That mutchkin stowp it hads but dribs,
Then let's get in the tappit hen.

Good claret best keeps out the cauld,
And drives away the winter soon;
It makes a man baith gash and bauld,
And heaves his saul beyond the moon.

Leave to the gods your ilka care,

If that they think us worth their while, They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fashious fears beguile.

For what they have a mind to do,

That will they do, should we gang wood;
If they command the storms to blaw,
Then upo' sight the hailstains thud.

But soon as ere they cry, "Be quiet,"
The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move,

But cour into their caves, and wait

The high command of supreme Jove.

Let neist day come as it thinks fit,
The present minute's only ours;
On pleasure let's employ our wit,
And laugh at fortune's fickle powers.

Be sure ye

dinna quat the grip

Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip, And lay ye twafald o'er a rung.

Sweet youth's a blyth and heartsome time;
Then, lads and lasses, while it's May,
Gae pou the gowan in its prime,
Before it wither and decay.

Watch the saft minutes of delyte,

When Jenny speaks beneath her breath, And kisses, laying a' the wyte

On you,

if she kepp ony skaith.

"Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say; "Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook;" Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, And hide hersell in some dark nook.

Her laugh will lead you to the place
Where lies the happiness you want,
And plainly tells you to your face,

Nineteen nay-says are haff a grant.