Come a' ye pow'rs o' Music, come!
I find my heart grows unco glum,
My fiddle strings will no play bum,
To say fareweel to whisky, O.
I'll take my fiddle in my hand,
And screw the strings up while they'll stand,
To mak a lamentation grand,

On gude auld Highland whisky, O.

BLYTHE AN' HAPPY ARE WE.

TUNE-" Andro and his cutty gun.”

Blythe, blythe, an' happy are we,
Cauld care is flegg'd awa;
This is but ae night o' our lives,

An' wha wou'd grudge tho' it were twa.

THE ev'ning shade around is spread,
The chilling tempest sweeps the sky;
We're kindly met, an' warmly set,
An' stream's o' nappy rinnin' by.
Blythe, &c.

While gettin' fou, we're great, I trow,

We scorn misfortune's greatest bangs;

The magic bowl can lift the soul

Aboon the warld and a' its wrangs.
Blythe, &c.

The days o' man are but a span,

This mortal life a passing dream,
Nought to illume the drearie gloom,
Save love an' friendship's sacred gleam.
Blythe, &c.

Then toom your glass to my sweet lass,
And neist we'll turn it o'er to thine:
The glowin' breast that loo's them best
Shall dearest ever be to mine.

Blythe, &c.

An' here's to you, my friend sae true,
May discord ne'er a feeling wound!
An' shou'd we flyte, ne'er harbour spite,
But in a bowl be't quickly drown'd.
Blythe, &c.

Now rap an' ring, an' gar them bring
The biggest stoupfu' yet we've seen:
Why shou'd we part, when hand an' heart
At ilka bumper grows mair keen?
Blythe, &c.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling;
I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay;
Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing,
But soon it is fled-it is fled far awae.

I've seen the forest adorn'd of the foremost,

With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay; Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming,

But now they are wither'd and a' wede awae.

I've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, And the red storm roaring before the parting day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunnie beams,

Turn drumlie and dark as they roll'd on their way.

O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting?

Why thus perplex us, poor sons of a day?

Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. *

MY KIMMER AND L

WHAN Kimmer and I were groom and bride,
We had twa pint stoups at our bed-side;
Sax times fu' and sax times dry,

An' raise for drouth-my Kimmer and I.
My Kimmer and I gade to the fair,
Wi' twal pun' Scots in sarking to ware:
But we drank the gude brown hawkie dry,
An' sarkless hame came Kimmer an' I.

My Kimmer and I gade to the town,
For wedding-breeks an' a wedding-gown;

* These verses, adapted to the ancient air of the Flowers of the Forest, are, like those formerly given, the production of a lady. "The late Mrs. COCKBURN, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire (whose father was Lord Justice Clerk of Scotland), was the authoress. Mrs. COCKBURN has been dead but a few years. Even at an age advanced beyond the usual bounds of humanity, she retained a play of imagination, and an activity of intellect, which must have been attractive and delightful in youth, but was almost preternatural at her period of life. Her active benevolence, keeping pace with her genius, ren. dered her equally an object of love and admiration.-The verses were written at an early period of her life, and without peculiar relation to any event, unless it were the depopulation of Ettrick Forest."-Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border.

With the above account of Mrs. COCKBURN, by Mr. SCOTT, the testimony of Mr. RAMSAY of Ochtertyre is perfectly in uni son. He she was says 66 a woman of great wit, who outlived all the first group of literati of the present [eighteenth], century, all of whom were very fond of her. I was delighted with her company, though, when I saw her, she was very old. Much did she know [relative to Scottish song] that is now lost."

But the sleekie auld priest he wat our eye
In sackcloth gowns-my Kimmer an' I.

My Kimmer and I maun tak the Beuk,
Wi' a twal pint stoup in our peat neuk;
Ere the psalm be done, the dish is dry,
An' drouthelie pray my Kimmer an' I.

My Kimmer and I are scant o' claes,
Wi' soups o' drink and soups o' brose;
But late we rise and soon gae lie,
And cantilie live-my Kimmer an' I.

My Kimmer is auld, my Kimmer is bent,
And I'm gaun louting owre a kent;
The well o' life is dribbling dry,
An' drouthie, drouthie's Kimmer an' I. *

HANDSOME KATIE.

TUNE-" Sleepy Maggy."

Now winter comes, wi' breath sae snell,
And nips wi' frost the gizzen'd gowan,
Yet frosty winter, strange to tell!
Has set my thrawart heart a-lowin'.
O dearest, charming Katie!
O sweetest, winsome Katie!
My heart has flown across the loan,
To dwall wi' my sweet neebor Katie.

When a' the chiels, wi' noses blae,
Creep chitterin' roun the cantie ingle,
Through sleet and snaw to Kate I gae,
Drawn wi' a whang o' Cupid's lingle.

O dearest, &c.

* This song, it would appear, is a native either of Nithsdale or Galloway; but the author's name is unknown. Mr. CROMEK says that "it is but modern," and that it "seems to be a slip, or scion, from Todlin Hame."

When our back door I gang to steek,
And bonnie Kate, frae her back winnock,
Gies a bit slee an' smilin' keek,

It warms me like a toasted bannock.

O dearest, &c.

To sleep I try, but deil ae wink;

(Frae hapless luve, may fate ay screen us!)
I sprawl an' fidget, whan I think

There's nought but a wee loan atween us.
O dearest, &c.

Langsyne Leander ilka night

Swam o'er the sea at Hero's biddin';
But if my Kate wad me invite,

I've nought ado but jump the midden.
O dearest, &c. *

The Editor has heard this song attributed to RAMSAY, but with what justice he cannot say, as he never met with it among any of the writings of that Poet, or saw a copy of it save the manuscript one from which it is here given; and this copy was written for him, from memory, by a person who had no recollection where he obtained it. But, whoever the author was, it will be allowed that the song is a most excellent one of its kind, and that it satirizes in a happy manner that gross affectation of passion, and those overstrained attempts at metaphor, which but too frequently characterize the love songs of inferior writers. The lover, however, is a sentimentalist in his way, and aiblins, somewhat of a humourist; but his sentimentality and his humour are the genuine offspring of unsophisticated Nature, and sit as freely and easily upon him, as his blue bonnet, or his Sunday's plaid. The manner in which he describes the effect produced on him by love, though homely, and sometimes, indeed, bordering on the ludicrous, is yet congenial to the charac ter of an untutored mind, and, as a simple expression of feeling, infinitely more natural, than any rhapsody about flames, and darts, and killing eyes, that ever was penned. Leander's crossing the Hellespont was nothing to the task he would perform, were Kate only inclined to lay her commands upon him.