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THE LASSIE O’ THE GLEN. TUNE,—“ Tiunntai uam le t-fheusaig ribaich.” A Gaelic dir.
BENEATH a hill, 'mang birken bushes,
By a burnie's dimpilt linn,
Hey the burnie's dimpilt linn :
Living in yon rashy glen.
Shall be ay my fav’rite theme;
O the birken, Sc.
Upward spring wi' quiv’ring fin,
O the birken, &c.
In some sweet wee bow'ry den;
O the birken, dc.
Far frae scenes we haunted then,
O the birken, fc.
* The above song is another of the productions of Mr. ANGUS FLETCHER (see page 170. Ruail (mentioned in the 2d verse) is a beautiful stream that winds slowly through the whole length " the pastoral valley of Glendaruel, Argyllshire.
NOW WESTLIN WINDS.
TUNE_" I had a horse.” :
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;
Among the blooming heather :
Delights the weary farmer;
To muse upon my charmer.
The plover loves the mountains;
The soaring hern the fountains;
The path of man to shun it;
The spreading thorn the linnet.
Thus every kind their pleasure find,
The savage and the tender;
Some solitary wander:
Tyrannic man's dominion;
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!
But Peggy dear, the ev’ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
All fading-green and yellow :
And view the charms of nature;
And ev'ry happy creature,
We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
Swear how I love thee dearly :
Not autumn to the farmer,
My fair, my lovely charmer!
HOW LONG AND DREARY IS THE NIGHT.
TUNE—“ Cauld kail in Aberdeen.”
When I am frae my dearie!
Tho' I were ne'er sae wearie.
And, oh! her dreans are eerie :
That's absent frae her dearie.
NOW ROSY MAY COMES IN WI FLOW'RS.
Tune—“ Dainty Davie.”
To wander wi' my Davie.
Daintie Davie, Daintie Davie ;
My ain dear daintie Davie.
When purple morning starts the hare,
To meet my faithfu' Davie.
Meet me on, &c.
THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.
To the braes O' Balquhither,
'Mang bonnie Highland heather ;
Lightly bounding together,
On the braes o' Balquhither.
I will twine thee a bow'r,
By the clear siller fountain,
Wi' the flow'rs o' the mountain ;
And the deep glens sae drearie,
To the bow'r o' my dearie.
Idly raves round our dwelling,
On the night breeze is swelling,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
A' the moorlands perfuming;
Let us journey together,
'Mang the braes o’ Balqubither. *
• The above song, by ROBERT TandahiLL, is highly characteristic of that Poet's manner. In the warmth of his feeling he always refers us to those juvenile eras of our life which fancy has gilded over with her brightest hues, and which the more cold and formal hand of fastidious judgment has not been able wholly to discolour. By this manner, which we think the very soul of compositions of this kind, he has ever a ready access to our heart, by re-embodying those lively images of past delight in our minds, which we never can contemplate but with enthusiasm: and let the inhabitant of the flowery lawn, when he combines no glowing idea with the bleak and barren hill, reflect that it is not scenery alone, but that connexion which subsists in our