An' Southrons down in thousands reeled,

Stark, stiff an' dour,

The vera weans did thistles wield,

An' fought like stour.

Since then no foe hath dared to tread
Upon thy guarded, crimson head,
But proudly from thy mountain bed

Thy head thou rear'st.

By flowing springs of freedom fed,

No blast thou fear'st.

Thy native land is free as air,

Her sons are bold, her daughters fair,

Bright soul'd, warm hearted, fond to share

The social smile,

Pure love, true friendship, glorious pair

Adorn the soil.

Rear high thy head, thou symbol dear,
Sae meek in peace, sae bauld in weir,
Mine e'e dimm'd wi' a full proud tear,

I bow before thee,

An' while life's pulse beats warm, I swear

Still to adore thee.

JAMES BALLANTINE.

THE BUIKIN' O' ROBIN AND MIRREN.

TUNE-" Brose and Butter."

GAE bring me my rokeley o' grey,

My mutch and red ribbons sae dainty,
And haste ye, lass, fling on your claes,
Auld Rab's to be buiked to aunty.
Ae gloamin' last ouk he cam' wast,
To speer for my auld lucky daddie,

Tho' sair wi' the hoast he was fash'd,
Ae blink o' auld aunt made him waddie.
Sae mak' yoursel' braw, braw,

And busk yoursel' tidy and canty,
Guid luck may as yet be your fa',
Sin' Rab's to be buiked to aunty.

The body cam' hirplin' ben,

Tho' warstlin' wi' eild, he was canty,
And he o'erly just speer'd for the men,
But he cadgily cracket wi' aunty.
Or e'er he had sitten a blink,

He sang and he ranted fu' cheery,
And auld aunty's heart he gar'd clink,
Wi'"Mirren, will ye be my deary?
For I'm neither sae auld, auld,

Nor am I sae gruesome or uggin,
I've a score o' guid nowt i' the fauld,
And a lang neck'd purse o' a moggin."

At this Mirren's heart gae a crack,

Like the thud o' a waukin' mill beetle, And she thocht, but she ne'er a word spak, "Weel, I'd e'en be contented wi' little." For Mirren, tho' threescore and ane,

Had never had "will ye," speer'd at her,
So she laid a fond loof in his han',

And quo' Robin "that settles the matter.'
Sae busk ye, lass, braw, braw,

Busk and let's aff, for I'se warran',
We'se hae daffin' and laughin' an' a',
At the buikin' o' Robin and Mirren.
PATRICK BUCHAN.

MY AIN COUNTRIE.

TUNE-" The Brier Bush."

How are ye a' at hame,
In my ain countrie?

Are your kind hearts aye the same,

In my ain countrie?

Are ye a' as fu' o' glee,

As witty, frank, and free,
As kind's ye used to be?
In my ain countrie.

Oh! a coggie I will fill
To my ain countrie!
Ay, and toom it wi' gude will

To my ain countrie!
Here's to a' the folk I ken,
'Mang the lasses and the men,
In ilk canty "but" an' "ben,"
O' my ain countrie!

Heaven watch thou ever o'er

My ain countrie! Let tyrants never more

Rule my ain countrie!

May her heroes dear to thee

The bauld hearts and the free

Be ready aye to dee,

For their ain countrie!

May a blessin' licht on a'

In my ain countrie!
Baith the grit folk an' the sma'
In our ain countrie!
On whatever sod I kneel-
Heaven knows I ever feel-
For the honour and the weal

O' my ain countrie!

ALEX. MACLAGGAN.

THE HIGHLAND MAID.

TUNE-"42d March."

AGAIN the lav'rock seeks the sky,
And warbles, dimly seen,
And summer views wi' sunny joy,
Her gow'ny robe o' green.

But ah! the summer's blythe return
In flowery pride array'd,

Nae mair can cheer the heart forlorn,
Or charm the Highland maid.

My true love fell by Charlie's side,
Wi' mony a clansman dear,
A gallant youth, ah! wae betide
The cruel Southron's spear.
His bonnet blue is fallen now,
And bloody is the plaid,

That aften on the mountain's brow
Has wrapp'd his Highland maid.

;

My father's shieling on the hill,
Is cheerless now and sad
The passing breezes whisper still,
"You've lost your Highland lad."
Upon Culloden's fatal heath

He spak' o' me, they said,
And faulter'd wi' his dying breath,
"Adieu! my Highland maid."

The weary night for rest I seek,
The langsome day I mourn,
The smile upon my wither'd cheek
Ah! never can return.
But soon beneath the sod I'll lie,

In yonder lowly glade,

Where haply ilka passer by

Shall mourn the Highland maid.

SIR BENJAMIN BUFFSTRAP.1

AIR--" Black Jock."

HAVE you ever heard of Sir Benjamin Buffstrap, the Broad, That knight of the razor so outre and odd

The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar?

Sure a sharper short shaver has seldom been seen,
With his buffstrap so black and his blades all so keen,
And his suds in his soap-box as white as the snow-
How closely the crop of the chin he can mow!
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.

Though a barbarous barber Sir Benjamin be,
Yet, like his neighbour shaver, no Savage 2 is he,
The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar :
For all his barbarities tend but to smooth
The wrinkles of age down to dimples of youth,
While the blood of his victims he studiously spares,
And only cuts off stiff rebellious hairs—

The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar.

This barbarous barber's a wonderful wight,
For his breadth is exactly the length of his height!
The barbarous barber of Barrowfield bar;
And his broad bluffy face is so pregnant with glee,
And his wild wit comes flashing so fearless and free,
That to see and to hear him, I'm certain would make
A whole congregation of Quakers' sides ache-

The barbarous barber at Barrowfield bar.

This clever little, facetious, bustling personage, is a particular friend of the author; is considered a great accession to every social party-and is as ready at repartee as the celebrated Jemmy Wright. He still resides at Barrowfield bar, Bridgeton-is barber, toll-man, spirit-dealer, farmer of ladle-dues, draff and sand contractor, punster, and poet. The term barbarous, has only an alliterative application; the worthy polisher of chins is as smooth and agreeable in his manners as the edge of his own blades.

2 Savage is the name of a neighbour strap.