Then up wi' our auld-fashion'd structure, An' Willie the tap o' the tree! An' up wi' the Souters o' Selkirk ! O, JEANIE, THERE'S NAETHING TO FEAR YE! AIR" Over the Border." O, MY lassie, our joy to complete again, Beauty and innocence O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye! Sweetly blows the haw an' the rowan-tree, List when the blackbird o' singing grows weary, Light foot, an' beating breast O Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye! Far, far will the bogle an' brownie be, Beauty an' truth, they darena come near it; Kind love is the tie of our unity, A' maun love it, an' a' maun revere it. 'Tis love makes the sang o' the woodland sae cheery, Love gars a' nature look bonny that's near ye; That makes the rose sae sweet, Cowslip an' violet O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye! ARABIAN SONG. MEET me at even, my own true love, Away and away Through flow'rets so gay, Singing its silver roundelay. Love is the fountain of life and bliss, Love is the valley of joyfulness; A garden of roses, Where rapture reposes; A temple of light, All heavenly bright O, virtuous love is the soul's delight! THE VILLAGE OF BALMAQUHAPPLE. AIR" The Soger Laddie." D'YE ken the big village of Balmaquhapple, Fling a' aff your bannets, an' kneel for your life, fo'ks, "O, blessed St Andrew, if e'er ye could pity fo'k, An' cheating an' stealing; O, grant them redemption, "There's Johnny the elder, wha hopes ne'er to need ye, "There's Cappie the cobbler, an' Tammie the tinman, An' Dickie the brewer, an' Peter the skinman, An' Bess, wha delights in the sins that beset her. "But for a' the rest, for the women's sake, save them, Their bodies at least, an' their sauls, if they have them; But it puzzles Jock Lesly, an' sma' it avails, If they dwell in their stamocks, their heads, or their tails, CALLUM-A-GLEN. WAS ever old warrior of suffering so weary ? No child to protect me, where once there were ten; My chief they have slain, and of stay have bereft me, And woe to the gray hairs of Callum-a-Glen! The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven, The bright steep of morning has blush'd at the view; The moon has stood still on the verge of the even, To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew : For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber, It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen; The pride of my country is fallen for ever Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen? The sun in his glory has look'd on our sorrow, Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken; The day is abiding of stern retribution On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen. THE THREE MEN OF MORISTON. Though this ballad commemorates three worthies only, it has been said that there were six of them, namely, the three trusty Macdonalds, Peter Grant, Hugh Chisholm, and Colin Fraser, by whom the Prince was concealed and supported in a cave in Glen-Moriston, for above five weeks. One of the Macdonalds went often in disguise into the English camp, to procure some wheaten bread for their guest, and pick up what intelligence he could. There he regularly heard, at the drum-head, a proclamation in English and Gaelic, of a reward of fifty-thousand pounds, to any one who would produce the Pretender. But though the guardians of the cave had not a shilling among them all, they despised enriching themselves by an act of treachery. How painful it is to add, what the editor has been assured is true, that one of these magnanimous poor fellows was afterwards hanged for stealing a cow! On the ladder he declared that he had never taken either sheep or cow from any of his own clan or their friends, nor from any man who had not risen against the house of Stuart. Consequently, all attempts to persuade him to acknowledge the justice of his sentence were fruitless. Now cease of auld ferlies to tell us, That happen'd nane living kens when ; |