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'Tis not Maria's whispering call;

'Tis but the balmy-breathing gale, Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall,

The dewy star of eve to hail. It is Maria's voice I hear !

So calls the woodlark in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer ;

At once 'tis music and 'tis love.

And art thou come?--and art thou true ?

Oh welcome, dear to love and me! And let us all our vows renew,

Along the flowery banks of Cree.

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The Thames flows proudly to the sea,

Where royal cities stately stand; But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command ; When shall I see that honour'd land,

That winding stream I love so dear! Must wayward fortune's adverse hand

For ever, ever keep me here? How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom !

Tho' wandering now must be my doom,

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, May there my latest hours consume,

Amang the friends of early days.


TUNE-Bhannerach dhon na chri.

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding

Devon, With green spreading bushes, and flowers

blooming fair! But the bonniest flower on the banks of the

Devon Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the

Ayr. Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the

dew; And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to


Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the

dawn; And far be thou distant, thou reptile that

seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded Lilies, And England, triumphant, display her

lawn !

proud Rose: A fairer than either adorns the green valleys, Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering



TUNE-Cameronian Rant. "Oh cam ye here the fight to shun,

Or herd the sheep wi' me my man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,

And did the battle see, man!”
“ I saw the battle, sair and tough,
And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh,
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O'clans frae woods, in tartan duds,

Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.
The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,

To meet them were na slaw man ; They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush’d,

And mony a bouk did fa', man : The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles : They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords

clash'd, And through they dash'd, and bew'd and

smash'd, Till fey men died awa, man.

But had you seen the philabegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man ;
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs,

And covenant true blues, man;
In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe.
And thousands hast'ned to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till out o' breath,

They fled like frighted doos, man."

“Oh how deil, Tam, can that be true?

The chase gaed frae the North, man ; I saw myself, they did pursue

The horseman back to Forth, man ; And at Dunblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a huntit, poor red-coat,

For fear amaist did swarf, man!”

“ My sister Kate cam up the gate

Wi' crowdie unto me, man ;
She swore she saw some rebels run

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good will
That day their neibors' blood to spill ;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose--all crying woes;

And so it goes, you see,


They've lost some gallant gentlemen

Amang the Highland clans, man:
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man :
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But mony bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell,

And Whigs to Hell did flee, man."


In Mauchline there dwells six proper young

belles, The pride of the place and its neighbour

hood a', Their carriage and dress, a stranger would

guess, In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'. Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine, Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is

braw, There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss

Morton : But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

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