Rouse every kilted clan,

Rouse every loyal man ;

Musket on shoulder, and thigh the broad sword on!

CHORUS.

Rise! rise! lowland and highland men;

Bald sire to beardless son, each come, and early; Rise! rise! mainland and island men,

Belt on your broad swords, and fight for Prince Charlie !"

SCOTIA'S GLENS.

AIR-" Lord Ballenden's delight."

'MANG Scotia's glens and mountains blue,
Where Galla's lilies never grew,

Where Roman eagles never flew,

Nor Danish lions rallied,

Where skulks the roe in anxious fear,
Where roves the swift an' stately deer,
There live the lads to freedom dear,
By foreign yoke ne'er galled!

There woods grow wild on every hill,
There freemen wander at their will,
And Scotland will be Scotland still,

While hearts so brave defend her!
Fear not, our sovereign Liege, they cry,
We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye;
For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die,

Nor aught but life surrender!

Since thou hast watch'd our every need,
And taught our navies wide to spread,
The smallest hair from thy grey head
No foreign foe shall sever;
Thy honour'd age in peace to save,
The sternest enemy we'll brave,
Or stem the fiercest ocean wave,
Nor heart nor hand shall waver!

Though nations join yon tyrant's arm,
While Scotia's noble blood runs warm,
Our good old man we'll guard from harm,
Or fall in heaps around him!

Although the Irish Harp were won,
And England's Roses all o'errun,

'Mang Scotia's glens, with sword and gun,
We'll form a bulwark round him!

LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON.

"Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale ; Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on; The Armstrongs are flying,

The widows are crying,

The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone!

"Lock the door, Lariston,-high on the weather-gleam See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky

Yeomen and carbinier,

Bilman and halberdier,

Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry!

"Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar ; Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey;

Hidley and Howard there,

Wandale and Windermere ;

Lock the door, Lariston; hold them at bay.

66

Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston ?
Why does the joy-candle gleam in thine eye?

Thou bold Border ranger,
Beware of thy danger;

Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh."

Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit, His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace; "Ah, welcome, brave foemen,

On earth there are no men

More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!

"Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here; Little know you of our moss-troopers' might—

Linhope and Sorbie true,

Sundhope and Milburn too;

Gentle in manner, but lions in fight !

"I have Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn and Netherbie, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array ;

Come all Northumberland,

Teesdale and Cumberland,

Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray !"

Scowled the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold!

Many a bold martial eye,
Mirror'd that morning sky,

Never more oped on his orbit of gold!

Shrill was the bugle's note ! dreadful the warrior's shout! Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;

Helmet and hauberk then

Braved the claymore in vain,

Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.

See how they wane-the proud files of the Windermere ! Howard! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day!

Hear the wide welkin rend,

While the Scots' shouts ascend-

"Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"

THE BOWER OF TAY.

AIR" Maid of Isla."

WEAR away, ye hues of spring,

Ye blooms of summer fade away,

Round the welcome season bring

That leads my steps to Highland Tay.

Dear to me the day-the hour,

When last her winding wave I saw,

But dearer still the bonnie bower

That lies aneath yon greenwood shaw.

Aye we sat, and aye we sighed,

For there was one my arms within ;

A ye the restless stream we eyed,
And heard its soft and soothing din :
The sun had sought Glen-Lyon's glade,
Forth peered the evening's modest gem ;
And every little cloud that strayed
Looked gaudy in its gowden hem.

The playful breeze across the plain
Brought far the wood-lark's wooer tale,
And gambolled o'er the mellow grain
In mimic waves adown the dale.
I saw the drops of dew so clear
Upon the green leaf trembling lie,
And, sweeter far, the crystal tear
That trembled in a lovely eye.

When lovers meet, 'tis to the mind
The spring-flush of the blooming year;
But oh, their parting leaves behind
A glow to memory ever dear.

Ettrick's fairy banks are green,

And Yarrow braes are mooned with grey;

But gloaming fall was never seen

Like that I viewed in bower of Tay.

THE BITTERN'S QUAVERING TRUMP ON HIGH.

THE bittern's quavering trump on high,

The beetle's drowsy distant hum,—

Have sung the day's wild lullaby,

And yet my Peggie is not come.