Big Mason Andrew, sae heavily fisted;

Jock Gude-for-naething, wha three times had listed;
Lang Miller Geordie, wi' meal a' bedusted-

Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the Glen.

Gleed Cooper Cuddy, a' girded fu' tightly,
Red-nosed Sawyer Will, wi' his beak shining brightly;
The tree-leggit Pensioner, marching fu' lightly-
Hae a' gane a-wooing to Bess o' the Glen.

They're sighing and sabbing, they're vowing an' swearing;
They're challenging, duelling, boxing, an' tearing;
While Bess, pawky jaud, is aye smirking an' jeering—

There ne'er was a gillflirt like Bess o' the Glen.

But a young Highland drover cam' here wi' some cattle;
Gat fou, an' swore Gaelic-gat fierce, an' gae battle;
An' a' the hale pack did he lustily rattle—

Hech! was nae that fun to young Bess o' the Glen?
His braid manly shouthers, caught Bessy's black eye;
Her heart gae a stound, an' her breast gae a sigh;
An' now the bauld Drover's gien ower driving kye-
For troth he's baith Laird o' young Bess an' the Glen.
JAMES BALLANTINE.

BETSY BAWN.

TUNE-" Blythe, blythe are we."

I LITTLE reck't that restless love

Wad ere disturb my peace again
I little reck't my heart would prove,

A victim 'neath his galling chain.
I've bribed him o'er and o'er again,

And mony a plack, I ween, hae drawn ;

But a' in vain, I pine in pain

For crookit-backit Betsy Bawn.

You've heard o' cheeks o' rosy hue-
O' breath sweet as the bud's perfume;
Ye've heard o' e'en whilk dang the dew
For brightness, on the lily's bloom;
Ye've heard o' waist sae jimp and sma’—
Whilk ye nae doubt would like to span ;
Far other charms my fancy warms-

Red goud's my terms wi' Betsy Bawn.

Right sad's the weary wanderer's fate,
When round him roars the tempest's din,
When howling mastiff at ilk gate,

Keeps a' without, and a' within.

I wot! a harder fate they dree,

Wha' maun at drouthy distance stan'
Wi' langin' e'e, yet daurna pree
The barley-bree o' Betsy Bawn.

Sweet love, ye work us meikle ill-
Far mair than we daur sing or say;
And weel ye ken had I my will,

An hour wi' me ye doughtna stay.
Yet for the sake o' auld langsyne,

I'll yet forgie ye-there's my han', Gif wi' ane dart, ye pierce her heartThe flinty part o' Betsy Bawn.

Daft Beauty swears her e'en's like deil's;
Her humphy back is sax times bow't;
Her wither'd limbs like twa auld eels-
Are roun' and roun' ilk ither row't.
Let love be cross'd wi' spit and host,
A parchment skin, a horny han',
Her purse is clad, sae I maun wed-
And eke maun bed wi' Betsy Bawn.

ALEX. MACLAGGAN.

THE SEA! THE SEA !

A PARODY. 1

THE Sea! the Sea! Oh me! oh me! The pail-be quick! I quail—I'm sick,— I'm sick as I can be ;

I cannot sit, I cannot stand;

I prithee, steward, lend a hand;

To my cabin I'll go,—to my berth will I hie,
And like a cradled infant lie.

I'm on the Sea-I'm on the Sea!

I am where I would never be ;

With the smoke above, and the steam below,
And sickness wheresoe'er I go;

If a storm should come no matter, I wot;
To the bottom I'd go-as soon as not.

I love, oh! how I love to ride

In a neat post chaise, with a couple of bays,
And a pretty girl by my side:

But, oh! to swing amidst fire and foam,

And be steam'd like a mealy potato at home :

And to feel that no soul cares more for your wo, Than the paddles that clatter as onward they go, The ocean's wave I ne'er moved o'er,

But I loved my donkey more and more,

And homeward flew to her bony back, Like a truant boy or a sandman's sack; And a mother she was, and is, to me; For I was an ass-to go to sea!

The fields were green, and blue the morn, And still as a mouse the little house

Where I-where I was born;

And my father whistled, my mother smiled,
While my donkey bray'd in accents mild :

I This parody on Barry Cornwall's song of "The Sea," we have taken, with permission, from Fraser's Magazine.

Nor ever was heard such an outcry of joy
As welcomed to life the beautiful boy.

I have lived, since then, in calm and strife,
With my peaceable donkey and termagant wife!

With a spur for the one, and a whip for the other;
Yet ne'er have wish'd to change with another :
And a proverb of old will apply to me—

"Who is born to be hang'd will not die in the sea!"

He was not one
Who looked upon
The consecrated grave—

As better spot

Wherein to rot

Than on the deep sea wave.
His lot was cast

To brave the blast

Through life—and now laid low,
Methinks his rest

Would be unblest

Where the tempest cannot blow.

O let his tomb

Be where his home

Was ever in his life

Amid the wrath

Of Ocean's path,

And the wild surge's strife.

The winds will be

Sweet melody

Unto his spirit near :

For their's was long

The only song

The Sailor cared to hear.

JOHN CROSS BUCHANAN.

THE HAPPY MEETING.

AIR-" Guardian Angels."

HAVE you hail'd the glowing morning,
When the sun first gilds the plain?

Or the genial spring returning,

After winter's dreary reign?

Then conceive, to me how dear

When my Anna-faithful, fair,

After years of lonely pain,

Bless'd my fond eyes-my arms again.