suit. The lady adopted the counsel, and the success of the experiment was complete. Hamilton wrote a serious poem, entitled 'Contemplation,' and a national one on the Thistle, which is in blank Verse:

How oft beneath
Its martial influence have Scotia's song,
Through every age, with dauntless valour fonght
On every hostile ground! Wbile o'er their breast,
Companion to the silver star, blest type
Of fame, unsullied and superior deed,
Distinguished ornament ! this native plant
Surrounds the sainted cross, with costly row
Of gems emblazed, and flame of radiant gold,

A sacred mark, their glory and their pride! Professor Richardson of Glasgow-who wrote a critique on Hamilton in the ‘Lounger'-quotes the following as a favourable specimen of bis poetical powers: In everlasting blushes seen,

The speaking glance, the amorous wile, Such Pringle shines, of sprightly mien • The sportful laugh, the winning smile. To her the power of love imparts,

Her soul awakening every grace,
Rich gift! the soft successful arts, Is all abroad upon her face;
That best the lover's fire provoke, In bloom of youth still to survive,

The lively step, the mirthful joke, All charms are there, and all alive. Others of his amatory strains are full of quaint conceits and exagge rated expression, without any trace of real passion. His ballad of

The Braes of Yarrow' is by far the finest of his effusions: it has real nature, tenderness, and pastoral simplicity. Having led to the composition of Wordsworth's three beautiful poems, ' Yarrow Unvisited,' * Yarrow Visited,' and ' Yarrow Revisited,' it has, moreover, some external importance in the records of British literature. The poet of the lakes las copied some of its lines and images. A complete collated edition of Hamilton's poems and songs, edited by James Paterson, was published in 1850.

The Braes of Yarrow.
A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny bride ;

ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow !
Busk ye, bnsk ye, my bonny, bonny bride,

And think vae inair on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Where gat ye that bonny, bonny bride ?

Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen,

Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
Weep not, weep not, my bonny, bonny bride;

Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow!
Nor let thy heart lament to leave

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.
B. Why does she weep, thy bonny, bonny bride ?

Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow ?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,

Pu'ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,

Lang maun she weep with dool and sorrow, And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen

Pu’ing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow. For she has tint her lover, lover dear,

Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow, And I hae slain the comeliest swain

That e'er pu'd birks on the Braes of Yarrow. Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red ?

Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds

Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow ?
What's yonder floats on the rueful, rueful flude ?

What's yonder floats? O dool and sorrow !
Tis he, the comely swain I slew

Upon the doolful Braes of Yarrow.
Wush, Q wash his wounds, his wounds in tears,

His wounds in tears with dool and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,

And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.
Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad,

Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow.
And weep around in waeful wise,

His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.
Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield,

My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,

His comély breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.
Did I not warn thee not to lo'e,

And warn from fight? but to my sorrow; O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm

Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow. Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,

Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,

Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowin'.
Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,

The apple frae the rock as mellow.
Fair was thy love, fair, fair indeed thy love;

In flowery bands thou him didst fetter;
Though he was fair and weil beloved again,

Than me he never lo'ed thee better.
Busk ye, then busk, my honny, bonny bride;

Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lo'e me on the banks of Tweed,

And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow. C. How can I busk a bonny, bonny bride,

How can I busk a winsome marrow, How lo'e him on the banks of Tweed,

That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow.

O Yarrow fields ! may never, never rain

Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love,

My love, as he had not been a lover.

The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,

His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing. Ah! wretched ine! I little, little ken'd

He was in these to meet his ruin.

The boy took out his milk-white, milk-white steed,

Unheedful of my dool and sorrow, But ere the to-fall of the night,

He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow. Much I rejoiced that waeful, waeful day;

I sang, my voice the woods returning, But lang ere night, the spear was flown

That slew my love, and left me mourning. What can my barbarous, barbarous father do,

But with his cruel rage pursue me ? My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me. My happy sisters, may be, may be proud,

With cruel and ungentle scoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes

My lover nailed in his coffin.
My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,

And strive with threatening words to move me, My lover's blood is on thy spear,

How canst thou ever bid me love thee? Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,

With bridal sheeis my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,

Let in the expected husband-lover.
But who the expected husband, husband is ?

His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,

Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after ? Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down;

O lay his cold head on my pillow ; Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds,

And crown my careful head with willow. Pale thongh thon art, yet best, yet best beloved, !

O could my warmth to life restore thee! Ye ‘d lie all night between my breasts;

No youth lay ever there before thee. Pale, pale, indeed, O lovely, lovely youth,

Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts ;

No youth shall ever lie there after.
A. Return, return, O mournful, mournful bride,

Return and dry thy useless sorrow:
Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs ;

He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

JOHN SKINNER.

Something of a national as well as a patriotic character may be claimed for the lively song of Tullochgorum,' the composition of the Rev. JouN SKINNER (1721-1807), who inspired some of the strains of Burns, and who delighted, in life as in his poetry, to diffuse feelings of kindliness and good-will among men. Mr. Skinner officiated as Episcopal minister of Longside, Aberdeenshire, for sixty-five years. After the troubled period of the rebellion of 1745, when the Episcopal clergy of Scotland laboured under the charge of disaffection, Skinner was imprisoned six months for preaching to more than four persons ! Ile died in his son's house at Aberdeen, having realised' his wish of seeing once more bis children's grandchildren, and peace upon Israel.' Besides • Tullochgorum,' and other songs, Skinner wrote an 'Ecclesiastical History of Scotland,' and some theological treatises.

Tullochgorum. Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried, Let wardly minds themselves oppress And lay your disputes all aside;

Wi’ fear of want, and double cess, What signifies 't for folks to chide And sullen sots themselves distress

For what's been done before them? Wi' keeping up decorum. Let Whig and Tory all agree,

Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,

Sour and sulky, sour and sulky, Let Whig and Tory all agree

Shall we sae sour and sulky sit, To drop their Whigmegmorum.

Like auld Philosophorum ? Let Whig and Tory all agree

Shall we sae soir and sulky sit, To spend this night with mirth and glee, Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nur wit, And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me

And canna rise to shake a fit The reel of Tullochgorum.

At the reel of Tullochgorum ?

0, Tullochgorum 's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;
And ony sumph that keeps up spite,

In conscience I abhor him.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
Blithe and merry, blithe and merry,
Blithe and merry we's be a',

And mak a cheerful quorum.
Blithe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',

The reel of Tullochgorum.

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest-hearted, open friend ;
And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties, a great store o’’em !
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by any vicious blot;
And may he never want a groat,

That's fond of Tullochgorum.

There need nae be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays ;
I wadna gie our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They 're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They 're douff and dowie at the best,

Wi' a' their variorum.
They 're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a'the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,

Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

But for the discontented fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say, Wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be that winda dance

The reel of Tullochgorum I

ROBERT CRAWFORD. ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of “The Bush aboon Traquair, and the still finer lyric of “Tweedside,' was a cadet of the family of Crawford of Drumsoy. He assisted Allan Ramsay in his Tea-table Miscellany, and, according to information obtained by Burns, was drowned in coming from France in the year 1733, aged about thirtyeight. Crawford liad genuine poetical fancy and expression. The true muse of native pastoral,' says Allan Cunningham, secks not to adorn herself with unnatural ornaments; her spirit is in homely love and fireside joy; tender and simple, like the religion of the land, she utters nothing out of keeping with the character of her people and the aspect of the soil; and of this spirit, and of this feeling, Crawford is a large partaker.'

The Bush aboon Traquair.
Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;

The fields we then frequented;
Though thus I languish and complain, If e'er we meet she shews disdain,
Alas !-she ne'er believes me.

She looks as ne'er acquainted. My vows and sighs, like silent air, The bonny bush bloomed fair in May, Unheeded, never move her;

Its sweets I 'll aye remember; At the bonny Bush aboon Traquair, But now her frowns make it decay'Twas there I first did love her.

It fades as in December.

That day she smiled and made me giid, Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, No maid seemed ever kinder;

Why thus should Peggy grieve me? I thought myself the luckiest lad, O make her partner in my pains, So sweetly there to find her ;

Then let her smiles relieve me: I tried to soothe my amorous flame, If not, my love will turn despair, In words that I thought tender;

My passion no more tender; If more there passed. I'm not to blame.. I'll leave the Bush aboon TraquairI meant not to offend her.

To lonely wilds I'll wander.

Treedorde.
What beauties does Flora disclose ! How does my love pass the long day?

How sweet are her smiies upon Tweed ! Does Mary not tend a few sheep :
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Do 'hey never carelessly stray
Both nature and fancy exceed.

While happily, she lies asleep ?
No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, Should Tweed's murmurs lull her to rest,

Not all the gay flowers of the field, Kind nature indulging my bliss, Not Tweed, gliding gently through those, To ease the soft pains of my breast,

Such beauty and pleasure does yield. I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. The warblers are heard in the grove, 'Tis she does the virgins excel ;

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush ; No beauty with her may compare : The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove, Love's graces around her do dwell; With music enchant every bush.

She's fairest where thousands are fair. Come, let us go forth to the mead; Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray ?

Let us see how the primroses spring; on, tell me at morn where they feed? We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay? And love while the feathered folk sing, Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ?

LADY GRISELL BAILLIE. A favourite Scottish song, “ Were na my Heart licht I wad dce,' appeared in the ‘Orpheus Caledonius'about 1725, and was copied by Allan Ramsay into bis “Tea-table Miscellany.' It was written by