BURNS. Air-"My lodging is on the cold ground."

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skics,
Now gay with the bright setting sun!

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties!
Our race of existence is run.

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go frighten the coward and slave!

Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
No terrors hast thou to the brave.

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;

Thou strik'st the young hero, a glorious mark,

He falls in the blaze of his fame.

In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands,
Our king and our country to save;

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,

Oh, who would not die with the brave!

This song, written by Burns to a Highland air called "Oran an oig," is now usually adapted to the English melody of "My lodging is on the cold ground," an air also claimed by the late Thomas Moore as Irish, and for which he wrote the beautiful song, "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms." The original song of "The mad shepherdess," whose lodging was on the cold ground, was sung in Davenant's comedy of "The Rivals," produced in London in 1688. "As this song," says Mr. Chappell, in his valuable collection of " Ancient English Airs," "has been published by Moore in his Irish Melodies,' the editor wishes to state it as the opinion of Mr. Bunting, who has devoted his life to the collection of Irish music; of Mr. Wade, who has also made it a particular study; of Mr. Edward Taylor, the Gresham leeturer; of Dr. Crotch, Mr. Ayrton, and many other eminent musical antiquaries, that from internal evidence of the tune itself, it is not Irish, but English; nor indeed has he hitherto met with any difference of opinion amongst musicians upon the subject. About the time that it was printed in 'Moore's Irish Melodies,' it was also published (in Dublin) in Clifton's British Melodies.'"

The late Sir Henry R. Bishop often asserted his positive belief that neither the Scotch nor the Irish had any true claim to this fine melody, which he held to be unmistakably English.


BURNS. April 1795.

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?

Then let the loons beware, sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,

And volunteers on shore, sir.

The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally.

Oh, let us not, like snarling curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till slap come in an unco loon,
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Among ourselves united;
For never but by British hands
Must British wrongs be righted.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,

Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But de'il a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

Our fathers' blood the kettle bought,

And who would dare to spoil it?
By Heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that would a tyrant own,

And the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who'd set the mob aboon the throne-

May they be damn'd together!
Who will not sing "God save the king!"
Shall hing as high's the steeple;

But while we sing "God save the king!"
We'll ne'er forget the people.

This song was written by Burns to the English air of "Push about the jorum." The Scotch melody of "The barrin' of our door" was afterwards found for it..


DR. JOHN LEYDEN. The music by R. A. SMITH.
LAND of my fathers! though no mangrove here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,

Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree;
Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free!
Free as his lord the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain.

Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might:
Dear native valleys, may ye long retain
The chartered freedom of the mountain swain
Long, mid your sounding glades, in union sweet,
May rural innocence and beauty meet;
And still be duly heard, at twilight calm,
From every cot the peasant's chanted psalm!

Then, Jedworth, though thy ancient choirs shall fade,

And time lay bare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie;
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong,
By Jed's pure stream, a sweeter ev'ning song
Than long processions once, with mystic zeal,
Pour'd to the harp and solemn organ's peal.



Written for Mr. Thomson's Collection, on the return of the Highland regiment

from Waterloo.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil :
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons;

Come in your war array,

Gentles and commons!


Come from deep glen and

From mountain so rocky;

The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill-plaid,

And true heart that wears one;

Come every steel blade,

And strong hand that bears one!

Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges;
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.
Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr`d,
The bride at the altar.

Come as the winds come

When forests are rended;

Come as the waves come

When navies are stranded.

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page, and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather;
Wide waves the eagle plume

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set:

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Now for the onset!

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MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ;

All the blue bonnets are over the Border.
Many a banner spread flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story;

Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mountain glen
Fight for your queen and the old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing;
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing;
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding, war-steeds are bounding;
Stand to your arms and march in good order;
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fry,

When the blue bonnets came over the Border.

The above spirited song, by Sir Walter Scott, was founded upon "General Leslie's march to Longmarston Moor," which appeared in Allan Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany," where it is marked as ancient, and as one of which Ramsay neither knew the age nor the author. The old song is of little or no merit, but is inserted here as

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