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Every thing in the Highlands now
Pe turn't to alteration;
And that's te great vexation.
And laws pring on te cadger: Nainsel wad durk him for hur deeds,
But oh she fears de sodger.
Me never saw the like, man:
And ca' him turnimspike, man.
Like Louden corn rigs, man; Whar twa carts may gang on her,
And no break others legs, man.
They sharge a penny for ilka hors,
In troth they'll be nae sheaper,
And they gie me a paper,
And there they mak them stand, man:
Tey had nae sic command, man.
And pay them what him's like, man:
That filthy turnimspike, man.
But I'll awa to te Highland hills, • Whar ne'er a ane sall turn her; And no come near your turnimspike,
Unless it pe to purn her.
THE BUD ON THE BRIER.
TUNE—“ The Campbell's are comin'."
The lavrock on the lea—lass,
The meeting o' friends may be happy, I own,
* Dr. BLACKLOCK of Edinburgh informed BURNS that he had often heard the tradition that the air of Duncan Gray was composed by a carman in Glasgow. BURNS himself thought it was “ that kind of light-horse gallop of an air that precluded sentiment;"—that “the ludicrous was its ruling feature ;” and accordingly, in writing the above verses for it, he has kept this idea steadily in view. For broad humour the song is certainly unequalled in the Scottish language; and it was with great justice the Hon. A. ERSKINE observed, in a letter to BURNS, that “spak o' lowpin owre a linn" was a line of itself that should make him immortal.
The bottle has its charm-lass,
Till love the bosom warm-lags.
For freedom's but a name-lass,
I'll wear thy chain wi' a' my heart,
Gif ye will be my ain-lass.
Then time may flee like wind-lass,
POWERS CELESTIAL. POWERS celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
Let my Mary be your care:
Fair and faultli ss as your own;
Draw your choicest influence down. Make the gales you waft around her,
Soft and peaceful as her breast; Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Sooth her bosom into rest:
Guardian angels, O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam;
Make her bosom still my home.
On Ettrick banks, on a summer's night,
At gloaming, when the sheep drove hame,
Come wading barefoot a' her lane.
My arms about her lily neck,
* This is a prayer of no common kind. In verses, such as we might suppose to be inspired by scenes as delightful as ever ori. ental fancy pictured, wishes are breathed for a beloved object which seem to have been dictated by the most pure and fervent passion-a passion cherished and invigorated by the genial warmth of Nature, and hallowed by the holy air of Heaven. The Editor of the Reliques of Burns, who first brought the verses into light as the production of our Bard, conjectures that they were written on Highland Mary, on the eve of the Poet's intended departure for the West Indies;---a conjecture not at all improbable, although Highland Mary had been dead several years before the Bard thought of emigrating, for a time, in consequence of the unfortunate issue of his affair with Miss ARMOUR : for it is to be observed that, from one of his early effusions formerly given, Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, there is reason to presume that a departure to the West Indies had long been a favourite object with him; and, in the piece immediately under notice, the name of the object, on whose behalf the wishes are uttered, and the allusion to wandering “in distant climes” and “realms unknown,” are all in favour of the conjecture.