For tho' we be persuaded, fully, Yet tedious delays-weel, truly, Had it been some wee ripplin' rill They might hae better proved their skill But to attempt to stem a river O, sic a hoax! O, what a haver ! Yet 'mid the struggle that remains, While friendship binds an' union reigns Like laws o' Medes and Persians That day a joyfu' jubilee, When labour's honest sons shall be An' when the draught they blithely pree, Success to thee, Dalmeny, still, An' a' wha seek auld Scotland's weal, Wha' for her sake wad face the deil An' though for Burns ye bauldly claim Nay, it maun be through comin' time 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, Round the spot where many mourn Closed now those eyes of blue, We will plant about thy head Breezes of the balmy eve, Round the spot where many mourn 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, There's nae kind o' tricks that oor Tam doesna try, Nae reckless adventure, an' nae noisy splore, Whene'er on the streets there's a wild drunken brawl, When there's bees' bykes to plunder, or kitlens to droon, |