HERE'S A HEALTH TO MY TRUE LOVE, &C.

THIS Song

is Dr. Blacklock's.-He told me that tradition gives the air to our James IV. of Scotland.

BIDE YE YET.

THERE is a beautiful song to this tune, begin

ning,

Alas, my son, you little know—

which is the composition of a Miss Jenny Graham of Dumfries.*

Alas! my son, you little know

The sorrows that from wedlock flow:

Farewel to every day of ease,

When you have gotten a wife to please,

* Miss Graham was a maiden lady; she lived to a pretty old age, and at length died a martyr to an asthma of many years continuance, the pain of which she alleviated by exercising her cheerful disposition in composing humourous Scotish songs.-Ed.

Sae bide you yet, and bide you yet,
Ye little ken what's to betide you yet;
The half of that will gane you yet,

If a wayward wife obtain you yet.

Your experience is but small,
As yet you've met with little thrall;
The black cow on your foot ne'er trod,*
Which gars you sing alang the road.
Sae bide you yet, &c.

Sometimes the rock, sometimes the reel,
Or some piece of the spinning-wheel,
She will drive at you wi' good will,
And then she'll send you to the de'il.

Sae bide you yet, &c.

When I like you was young and free,
I valued not the proudest she;
Like you I vainly boasted then,

That men alone were born to reign.
Sae bide you yet, &c.

* This is an ancient proverbial expression. It is used by Sir John Harrington in his translation of the Orlando Furioso (b. vi. s. 72.) where, speaking of some very young damsels, he says, The blacke oxe has not yet trod on their toe.

It is used in Yorkshire to this day, and is generally applied to such indiscreet unmarried young men as have not yet sown their

wild oats.

Great Hercules and Sampson too,
Were stronger men than I or you;
Yet they were baffled by their dears,
And felt the distaff and the sheers.
Sae bide you yet, &c.

Stout gates of brass, and well-built walls,
Are proof 'gainst swords and cannon-balls;
But nought is found by sea or land,
That can a wayward wife withstand.
Sae bide you yet, &c.

BIDE YE YET.

Gin I had a wee house and a canty wee fire,
A bonny wee wifie to praise and admire,
A bonny wee yardie aside a wee burn;
Fareweel to the bodies that yammer and mourn.
Sae bide ye yet, and bide ye yet,

Ye little ken what may betide ye yet,
Some bonny wee body may be my lot,
And I'll be canty wi thinking o't.

When I gang afield, and come home at e'en,
I'll get my wee wifie fou neat and fou clean;
And a bonny wee bairne upon her knee,
That will cry, papa, or daddy, to me.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

And if there happen ever to be

A diff'rence atween my wee wifie and me,
In hearty good humour, although she be teaz'd,
I'll kiss her and clap her until she be pleas'd.
Sae bide ye yet, &c.

HEY TUTTI TAITI.*

I HAVE met the tradition universally over Scotland, and particularly about Stirling, in the neigh

To this melody Burns adapted his celebrated address of Bruce at Bannockburn. His feelings on visiting the scene of that memorable battle are described in his unpublished journal in the Editor's possession, in language almost as sublime and energetic as that of his heart-rousing Poem, and they are both here inserted, that the reader may judge between the embryo and the full-grown offspring of his genius.

"Bannockburn. Here no Scot can pass uninterested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant, heroic countrymen coming o'er the hill, and down upon the plunderers of their country, the murderers of their fathers; noble revenge and just hate glowing in every vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, insulting, blood-thirsty foe! I see them meet, in gloriously triumphant congratulation, on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal Leader, and rescued liberty and independence!"

ROBERT

bourhood of the scene, that this air was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockhurn.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed, -
Or to glorious victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward! chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains;
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be-shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe;

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!