BEACON SONG.

THERE'S fire on the mountains, brave knights of the north, Mount, mount your fleet steeds and away;

There's fire on the mountains, mount knights of the north, For our beacons blaze bright as the day.

Haste away, haste away.

Let your war-flags wave wild on the blast of the night, To the notes of the bold bugle-horn;

Though your steeds may get warm in your fiery advance, They'll grow cool in the dews of the morn.

Haste away, haste away.

Hot foot comes the foe from his home in the south,
To ravage our dear native land;

Haste away, haste away, brave knights of the north,
And meet him with buckler and brand.
Haste away, haste away.

From litter, from loch-side, from corry and glen,
The mountain-men come to your aid,

With broadsword and axe newly ground for the fray,
And all in their tartans arrayed.

Haste away, haste away.

Haste away, haste away, brave knights of the north,
There's glory, there's fame to be won ;

Berwick law, Berwick law, is your mustering ground,
Oh! shame if the conflict's begun.

Haste away, haste away.

The foe you now meet, you have oft met before,
And oft driven him back with dismay;

Though his spear-heads, in thousands, gleam bright to our fires,

Clap spurs to your steeds and away.

Away, haste away.

J. D. CARRICK.

FIRST LOVE.1

THOU think'st that nought hath had the power
This heart to softness move;

Thou'rt wrong-no knight more faithfully

Ere wore his lady's glove,

Than I within my breast have borne
A first, an only love.

Her form-I cannot paint her form-
In life I was but young,

Even when I last knelt at her feet,
And on her accents hung.

I would not swear her beautiful—
Yet such she must have been,-
And in my dreams of paradise
She mingles in each scene.

This present time, in crowded halls,
Surrounded by the gay,

I follow, in forgetfulness,
Her image far away;

And if I list a touching voice

Or sweet face gaze upon,

'Tis but to fill my memory
With that beloved one.

For days-for months-devotedly
I've lingered by her side,
The only place I coveted

Of all the world so wide;

And in the exile of an hour,

I consolation found,

I We have, with the author's kind permission, taken this exquisite ballad from "Fitful Fancies," by William Kennedy, from which we have already extracted so liberally. It is, perhaps, the most finished piece published in modern times-whether as respects the intensity of feeling, or the classical elegance of expression.

Where her most frequent wanderings
Had marked it holy ground.

It was not that in her I saw
Affection's sovereign maid,

In beauty and young innocence
Bewitchingly arrayed;

'Twas more-far more ;-I felt, as if
Existence went and came,

Even when the meanest hind who served
Her father breathed her name.

I longed to say a thousand things,
I longed, yet dared not speak,
Half-hoped, half-feared, that she might read
My thoughts upon my cheek.
Then, if unconsciously she smiled,
My sight turned faint and thick,
Until with very happiness,

My reeling heart grew sick.

O days of youth! O days of youth!
To have these scenes return,
The pride of all my riper years

How gladly would I spurn!
That form the soul of my boy life-
Departed, and none came,

In after-time, with half the charm
Which cleaves unto her name.

Nor vanished she, as one who shares
The stain of human birth,
But, like an angel's shade that falls
In light upon the earth;

That falls in light, and blesses all
Who in its radiance lie,

But leaves them to the deeper gloom
Whene'er it passes by.

RHYMING RAB THE RANTER.1

WHEN Scotia's pipe had tint her tune,
Lang reestin' in the reek, man,
And pipers were sae faithless grown,
They scarce could gar her squeak, man;
A doughty chiel cam' down the hill,
Ca'd Rhymin' Rab the Ranter—
But pipers a' their chafts might claw,
When he blew up the chanter.

He blew sae sweet, he blew sae shrill,
He blew sae loud and lang, man,
Baith hill and dale can tell the tale,
They ne'er gat sic a sang, man;

I This song was produced on the Anniversary of the Kilbarchan Burns' Club.

It may not be known, generally, that Kilbarchan was the birthplace of Habbie Simson, rival to Rab the Ranter. There is a tradition that Habbie, who could not bear a rival, was fairly beat by Rab in a trial of their musical powers, and that, determining to be avenged, he put his hand to his sword, and aimed a most dreadful blow at his successful rival, turning away his head at the same time to avoid seeing the deadly gash that his weapon had inflicted. Taking the direction of Blackstone Moss, he bogged himself for three days in one of the hags. The stomach, ever selfish, and not caring about the sympathies of the neck, put in her irresistible alternative, "Better be hanged than starved;" so the combative piper returned to a friend's house, who was anxious about him, and could not account for his absence. Habbie, relating the detail of the murder, claimed his protection against the fangs of justice. "Gae wa', ye daft gouk! my certie, Rab's baith meat and claith like; I saw him this verra day, and there didna appear to me the scart o' a preen about his face." Habbie, though relieved from fear, would not have cared though his rival's drone had been for ever silenced. On examining the scabbard of his sword, he found the blade sleeping quietly and bloodless; the hilt having come away in the haste and fury of the enraged piper.

A statue of Habbie graces a niche in the Kilbarchan church steeple, blowing with as much expression as rudely chiselled freestone can give; at least two bagfuls of spare wind in his inflated cheeks.

Fame heard the soun' a' Scotland roun',
By sooth he didna saunter,

Like fire and flame flew fast the name,
O' Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.

From John o'Groats to 'cross the Tweed,
And round the English border,
Was heard the rant o' Rabbie's reed,
Sae weel 'twas kept in order.

To shepherd knowes where shamrock grows,
Wi' sic a stound he sent her,
Auld Erin's drone her hood put on,

To shun the Scottish chanter.

Our lasses linket to the lilt,

The lads they lap and caper'd,
The carlins coost their crummies tilt,
Sae vauntingly they vapour'd,
Auld gutchers gray streek't up their clay,
To club the merry canter;

Whilst wood and glen prolong'd the strain,
O' Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.

But Scotia weel may wail her skaith,
And break her drones an' a', man,
For death has marr'd her piper's breath,
Nae langer can he blaw, man;
She e'en may sit her down and sigh,
And wi' a greet content her,
She'll ne'er again on hill or plain,
Meet Rhymin' Rab the Ranter.

Here's health to Scotland and her lair,
Her heighs and hows sae scraggie;
Her doughty sons and dochters a',
Her haggis and her coggie.