For tho' we be persuaded, fully,
That time will yet disclose their folly,
Upsetting a' their vain unholy
Insinuations;

Yet tedious delays-weel, truly,
They try oor patience.

Had it been some wee ripplin' rill
Windin' around the lonely hill,
An' wanderin' amaist at will
In dubious course,

They might hae better proved their skill
Near its weak source.

But to attempt to stem a river
Whose gathering waves are resting never,
More stately and majestic ever
Nearer the main ;

O, sic a hoax! O, what a haver !
How rash and vain!

Yet 'mid the struggle that remains,
Let ilka ane use a' his pains

While friendship binds an' union reigns
Now and throughout,

Like laws o' Medes and Persians
That alter not.

That day a joyfu' jubilee,

When labour's honest sons shall be
Frae serfdom's latest shred set free,
Stigma and stain;

An' when the draught they blithely pree,
It's but their ain.

Success to thee, Dalmeny, still,

An' a' wha seek auld Scotland's weal,
By pen or sword, or pointed steel-
As oft we've read it—

Wha' for her sake wad face the deil
If that were needed.

An' though for Burns ye bauldly claim
The highest pinnacle of fame,
Thinkna, thereby, your ain fair name
Has ought to fear;

Nay, it maun be through comin' time
Held doubly dear.

From the author's first volume, by special request of a few friends.

AIR-"Kelvin Grove."

LET me linger on the brae by the Auld Lint Mill,
At the peacefu' close o' day by the Auld Lint Mill;
Let me list the torrent's din,

Rushing down the deep ravine,

There to meet the limpid Lyne by the Auld Lint Mill.

The valley, oh, how dear, round the Auld Lint Mill,
And each sight an' scene that's near to the Auld Lint Mill!
Let the pleasin' past declare

O' the happy moments there,

That return to me nae mair, by the Auld Lint Mill.

For how often did we play 'round the Auld Lint Mill,
In our youth's delightfu' day by the Auld Lint Mill,
When our hearts were fou o' glee,

As the warblers on the tree,

Or the lambkins sportin' free 'round the Auld Lint Mill!

*An old ruin on the banks of the Lyne, a mile above the village of Linton, and now a favourite resort of summer visitors. The romantic scenery has been transferred to the canvas, of late, by artists—amateur and professional.

Though my playmates now are far frae the Auld Lint Mill, And though some will look nae mair on the Auld Lint Mill, Every face and every name

Dwells in memory's page the same,

Though I dinna meet wi' them by the Auld Lint Mill.

Then the praises I will sing o' the Auld Lint Mill,
Till the lonely woods shall ring 'round the Auld Lint Mill,
An' the gladsome glittering stream

Shall re-echo back the hymn,

'Neath the gloamin' shades sae dim 'round the Auld Lint Mill.

ANNIE GONE FOR EVER.

BREEZES of the balmy eve,
Zephyrs softly sighing,
Whisper gently o'er the grave
Where a loved one's lying.
By yon fair and flowery thorn
Holy angels hover,

Round the spot where many mourn
Annie gone for ever.

Closed now those eyes of blue,
Once that beamed so brightly;
Still'd for aye those fairy feet,
Once that tripped so lightly.
Shrouded now that snow white brow
In death's chamber lonely,
Where those lips lie closed that spoke
Words of kindness only.

We will plant about thy head
Flowers of Spring the rarest,
We will strew around thy bed
Summer blooms the fairest,
Types of thee and of thy fate,
Sweet, though faded roses,
Shall be scattered round the spot
Where thy dust reposes.

Breezes of the balmy eve,
Zephyrs softly sighing,
Whisper gently o'er the grave
Where a loved one's lying.
By yon fair and flowery thorn
Holy angels hover,

Round the spot where many mourn
Annie gone for ever.

VERSES ON THE BATTLE OF CULLODEN.

Fought on 16th April, 1746.

Fourteen of the Pretender's banners were brought to Edinburgh; an by the Duke of Cumberland's command, those banners, which had spread terror over a great part of the island, were burned with every mark of contempt and ignominy. The heralds, trumpeters &c., escorted the common executioner, who carried the Pretender's colours, and thirteen chimney-sweepers, who carried the rest of the colours, from the castle to the cross. They were burned one by one, an herald always proclaiming the names of the commanders to which the respective colours belonged. -Arnot's History of Edinburgh.

WAKE the pibroch! wake the pibroch! weird and woeful be its wail,

Let its shrillest shrieks be wafted on the fitful April gale. "Tis a tale with sorrow laden! 'tis a dirge of deepest woe! hat we wake for thee, Culloden! where the valiant werTe laid low.

Wake the pibroch! wake the pibroch! not the rallying battle cry,

With the tartaned clansmen gathering, and the banners floating high.

They are gone now-gone for ever, the bright banners that they bore!

And the stalwart clansmen rally round their gallant chiefs

no more.

Wake the pibroch! sound the slogan! let their glory not go down,

Though we mourn not that the Stuart never more shall wear the crown.

Yet we love thee, lone Culloden! where the valiant found a

grave,

As we cherish still the memory of the noble, true, and brave.

Wake the pibroch! sound the slogan! thro' the lonely Highland glen!

Bid us dream again of Drummond, of Lord Murray and his

men!

Feel again those strange emotions thro' the bosom flit and steal

At the mention of Clanranald, of Glengarry and Lochiel.

Wake the pibroch! wake the pibroch! ere we bid a last farewell

To the spot where he did listen to his clansmen's funeral knell,

Ere he braved those deeds of daring by the mountain and

the wave,

That enshrine the name for ever of the Royal Fugitive.

Wake the pibroch! wake the pibroch! weird and woeful be its wail,

Let its shrillest shrieks be wafted on the fitful April gale. 'Tis a tale with sorrow laden! 'tis a dirge of deepest woe! That we wake for thee, Culloden! where the valiant were laid low.

OOR TAM.

A PITY oor Tam's sic a terrible loon

Sic a wild steerin', rough tearin', terrible loon,
He's brocht me to grief noo wi' half o' the toon;
A pity oor Tam 's sic a terrible loon.

There's nae kind o' tricks that oor Tam doesna try,
Nae mischief but he has a hand i' the pie,

Nae reckless adventure, an' nae noisy splore,
But Tam's aye the leader an' king o' the core.

Whene'er on the streets there's a wild drunken brawl,
A row or a racket 'mang young folks or aul';

When there's bees' bykes to plunder, or kitlens to droon,
Ye'll find oor Tam there--he's a terrible loon.