It kindles a spark in the breast o' the cauld,
And it mak's the rank coward courageously bauld;
Then we'll toddle butt, an' we'll toddle ben,

An' we'll coup aff our glasses,-"here's to you again."

Авра

Alera Rodger

THE IRON DESPOT OF THE NORTH.

THE iron Despot of the North

May on his vassals call,
But not for him will I go forth
From my old castle hall.

Though sabres, swayed by Polish hands,
Have battled for the foe,

There's one, at least, Oppression's bands
Shall ne'er see brandished so!

I fought in Freedom's farewell field,
I saved a useless life;

No weapon from that hour to wield,
In a less noble strife.

When hostile strangers passed my gate,
On Hope's red grave I swore,
That, like my ruined country's fate,
This arm should rise no more.

I flung into the bloody moat,
A flag, no longer free,
Which centuries had seen afloat,

In feudal majesty.

The sword a warrior-race bequeathed

With honour to their son,

Hangs on the mouldering wall unsheathed,

And rust consumes my gun.

The steed that, rushing to the ranks,
Defied the stubborn rein,
Felt not on his impatient flanks,
The horseman's spur again.
And I, the last of all my line,

Left an affianced bride,

Lest slaves should spring from blood of mine,
To serve the Despot's pride.

Will Kenned

THE KAIL-BROSE OF AULD SCOTLAND.1 (NEW VERSION.)

AIR-" The Roast-beef of Old England."

THE Genius of Scotland lang wept ower our woes,
But now that we've gotten baith peace and repose,
We've kits fu' o' butter-we've cogs fu' o' brose :
O the kail-brose of auld Scotland,

And O for the Scottish kail-brose.

Nae mair shall our cheeks, ance sae lean an' sae wan,
Hing shilpit and lank, like a bladder half-blawn;
Our lang runkled painches will now, like a can,
Be stentit wi' brose o' auld Scotland,

The stiff, stughie, Scottish kail-brose.

I This modern version of the potent effects of the National dish, Kail-brose, fairly, in our opinion, excels the original by Deacon Watson; but our friend Mr. Inglis must not be unduly elevated at our preference, because the Deacon of the Tailors lays claim, professionally, to fractional proportions in the genus homo, though really his song is worthy of Nine hands, the quantity of squatters who are required to fill the clothes of an able-bodied member in common society.

Our Sawnies and Maggies, as hard as the horn,

At e'en blythe will dance, yet work fell the neist morn ; They'll haud baith the French and their puddocks in scorn, While fed on the brose o' auld Scotland,

Large luggies o' Scottish kail-brose.

There's our brave Forty-second, in Egypt wha fought, Wi' Invincibles styled, whom they soon set at nought; But the Frenchmen ne'er dreamt that sic wark could be wrought,

For they kent na the brose o' auld Scotland,

The poust that's in Scottish kail-brose.

Again, at the battle o' red Waterloo,

How they pricket and proget the French thro' and thro';
Some ran, and some rade-and some look'd rather blue,
As they fled frae the sons o' auld Scotland,
Frae the chiels that were fed upon brose.

To tell ilka feat wherein Scotsmen hae shone,
Is vain to attempt-they're so numerous grown ;
For where will you meet wi' mair muscle and bone,
Than is bred on the brose o' auld Scotland,
The rib-prapping Scottish kail brose?

Then join me, all ye to whom Scotland is dear,
And loud let us sing o' the chief o' her cheer;
Let cutties and cogs show our hearts are sincere,

While we welcome the brose o' auld Scotland,
The braw halesome Scottish kail brose !

Not hylis

IT'S DOWIE IN THE HIN' O' HAIRST.

It's dowie in the hin' o' hairst,

At the wa'gang o' the swallow,

When the winds grow cauld, when the burns grow bauld, An' the wuds are hingin' yellow;

But, O! its dowier far to see

The wa'gang o' her the heart gangs wi'—

The deadset o' a shining e'e

That darkens the weary warld on thee.

There was muckle luve atween us twa-
O! twa could ne'er be fonder;
An' the thing below was never made
That could hae gar'd us sunder.
But the way o' Heav'n's aboon a' ken-
An' we maun bear what it likes to sen'-

It's comfort though, to weary men,

That the warst o' this warl's waes maun en'.

There's mony things that come an' gae-
Just seen and just forgotten-

An' the flow'rs that busk a bonnie brae,
Gin anither year lie rotten;

But the last look o' that lovely e'e,
An' the dying grip she ga'e to me,
They're settled like eternity:

O, Mary! that I were with thee!

New Ainslie

I'VE SOUGHT IN LANDS AYONT THE SEA.

AIR-"My Normandie."

I'VE sought in lands ayont the sea
A hame-a couthie hame for thee,
An' honeysickle bursts around

The blythsome hame that I hae found;
Then dinna grudge your heather bell,
O fretna for your flowerless fell,
There's dale an' down mair fair to see,
Than ought in our bleak countrie!

Come o'er the waters, dinna fear,
The lav'rock lilts as lo'esome here,
An' mony a sweet, around, above,
Shall welcome o'er my Jessie, love,
My hame wi' halesome gear is fu',
My heart wi' lowing love for you;
O haste, my Jessie, come an' see
The hame-the heart that wants but thee!

But mind ye, lass, the fleetfu' hours,
They wait na-spare na fouk nor flowers,
An' sair are fouk and flowers to blame,
Wha wishfu' wastefu' wait for them.
O bide na lang in swither, then,
Since flowers and fouk may wither, then,1
But come as lang's I hae to gie
A hame, a heart to welcome thee !

Millian Thom

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