ROBERT GILFILLAN.

A RESPECTABLE contributor to the Caledonian minstrelsy, Robert Gilfillan was born in Dunfermline on the 7th July 1798. His parents were in humble circumstances; and owing to the infirmities of his father, he was required, while a mere youth, to engage in manual labour for the support of the family. He found a solace to his toils in the gratification of a turn for verse-making, which he inherited from his mother. In his thirteenth year, he entered on an apprenticeship to a cooper in Leith; and at the age of twenty, became a grocer's assistant in his native town. From his twenty-third till his thirty-ninth year, he acted as clerk to a wine-merchant in Leith. In 1837, he was preferred to the office of Collector of Poor'srates in Leith, and continued to hold this appointment till his death. This event took place on the 4th December 1850, in his fifty-second year.

A man of amiable and social dispositions, Gilfillan was much cherished among the wits of the capital. A volume of lyrics from his pen passed through two editions; and several of his songs have been set to music, and have attained a well-merited popularity. His style is remarkable for graceful simplicity.

MANOR BRAES.

TUNE-"Logan Water."

WHERE Manor stream rins blithe an' clear,
And Castlehill's white wa's appear,

I spent ae day, aboon a' days,

By Manor stream, 'mang Manor braes.
The purple heath was just in bloom,
And bonnie waved the upland broom,
The flocks on flowery braes lay still,
Or, heedless, wander'd at their will.

'Twas there, 'mid Nature's calm repose,
Where Manor clearest, saftest flows,
I met a maiden fair to see,

Wi' modest look and bashfu' e'e;
Her beauty to the mind did bring
A morn where summer blends wi' spring,
So bright, so pure, so calm, so fair,
"Twas bliss to look-to linger there!

Ilk word cam frae her bosom warm,
Wi' love to win and sense to charm,
So much of nature, nought of art,
She'll live enthroned within my heart!
Aboon her head the laverock sang,

And 'neath her feet the wild-flowers sprang;
Oh, let me dwell, where beauty strays,
By Manor stream an' Manor braes.

I speir'd gif ane sae young an' fair
Knew aught of love, wi' a' its care?
She said her heart frae love was free,
But aye she blush'd wi' downcast e'e.

The parting cam, as partings come,

Wi' looks that speak, though tongues be dumb; Yet I'll return, ere many days,

To live an' love 'mang Manor braes.

FARE THEE WELL.

TUNE-" Roy's Wife."

FARE THEE WELL, for I must leave thee;
But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,

At least I wish them thine-believe me!

We part-but by those dew-drops clear,
My love for thee will last for ever;
I leave thee-but thy image dear,
Thy tender smiles, will leave me never.
Fare thee well, &c.

Oh! dry those pearly tears that flow-
One farewell smile before we sever;
The only balm for parting woe
Is-fondly hope 'tis not for ever.

Fare thee well, &c.

Though dark and dreary lowers the night,
Calm and serene may be the morrow;
The cup of pleasure ne'er shone bright,
Without some mingling drops of sorrow!
Fare thee well, for I must leave thee,

But, oh, let not our parting grieve thee;
Happier days may yet be mine,

At least I wish them thine-believe me!

THE FIRST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the first rose of summer that opes to my view, With its bright crimson bosom all bathed in the dew; It bows to its green leaves with pride from its throne'Tis the queen of the valley, and reigneth alone.

Oh! why, lovely stranger! thus early in bloom,
Art thou here to assure us that summer is come?
The primrose and harebell appear with the spring,
But tidings of summer the young roses bring.

Thou fair gift of nature (I welcome the boon),

Was 't the lark of the morning that 'woke thee so soon? Yet I weep, thou sweet floweret! for soon, from the sky, The lark shall repose where thy leaves wither'd lie.

Oh! if beauty could save thee, thou ne'er wouldst decay,
But, alas! soon thou 'lt perish and wither away;
And thy kindred may blossom, and blossom as fair-
Yet I'll mourn, lonely rosebud! when thou art not there.

THE EXILE'S SONG.

TUNE-" My ain Countrie."

OH! why left I my hame,
Why did I cross the deep?

Oh! why left I the land

Where my forefathers sleep?

I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea;
But I canna get a blink
O' my ain countrie!

The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs,
And to the Indian maid

The bulbul sweetly sings;
But I dinna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my ain countrie!

Oh! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie,
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie!

There's a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain; But the first joys o' our heart Come never back again. There's a track upon the deep,

And a path across the sea, But the weary ne'er return To their ain countrie!