THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

Tune-" Push about the jorum,”

The

The following song was written, April, 1795. Poet sent it to Mr. Jackson, editor of the Dumfries Journal: the original manuscript, through the kindness of my friend Mr. Milligan, is now before me.-ED.

I.

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!

II.

O let us not, like snarling tykes,
In wrangling be divided;
Till slap come in an unco loon
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;

For never but by British hands

Maun British wrangs be righted!

III.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,

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

Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;
By heaven! the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.

IV.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,
And the wretch his true-born brother,
Who would set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be damned together!
Who will not sing, "God save the King,"
Shall hang as high's the steeple ;
But while we sing, "God save the King,"
We'll ne'er forget the people.

[When the French found that we not only hesitated to overthrow all that was old and begin anew; but that we resented their interference in the affairs of other nations as well as our own, they resolved to come over, sword in hand, and force the freedom upon us which we refused to take. This threat called up the spirit of the island and Burns enrolled himself among the gentlemen volunteers of Dumfries, and stood shoulder to shoulder

:

with his friends Maxwell, Staig, and Syme. At a public dinner given to the officers of the corps, the Poet was expected to utter something either in verse or prose-he said nothing, for his health was then failing: but he did not miss to observe that his silence was misinterpreted. On going home he wrote "The Dumfries Volunteers." The song became popular at once, and was soon to be heard on hill and dale; for the peasantry of Scotland sing at the sheepfold and at the plough, and cheer themselves with verse in all ordinary pursuits of life. To extend its influence still farther, he had it printed with the music upon a separate sheet by Johnson, and thus it penetrated into the nobleman's drawing-room as well as into the farmer's spence.

Some of the allusions are local, and require explanation. If Nith ran to Corsincon, it would run backward, and up hill too. The Criffel is a high green mountain on the Scottish side of the Solway, and is said, in the legends of the district, to be the materials which a witch had collected to choke up the sea, that the English army might march over dry-shod. Luckily a devout shepherd came to his door in the gray of the morning, and on seeing the unsonsie carlin marching past with a mountain on her back, exclaimed "God guide us!—what next?— the very hills are leaving us." Down dropt the mountain, and away flew the witch, and never renewed her strange attempt. The sentiments of the song are understood by all ranks-they echo what every true British bosom feels.-ED.]

No. LXXIV.

BURNS TO G. THOMSON.

May, 1795.

ADDRESS TO THE WOOD-LARK,

Tune-"Where'll bonnie Ann lie."

Or, "Loch-Eroch Side."

I.

O STAY, Sweet warbling wood-lark, stay!
Nor quit for me the trembling spray;
A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing fond complaining.

II.

Again, again that tender part,

That I may catch thy melting art;

For surely that would touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

III.

Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,

Sic notes o' woe could wauken.

IV.

Thou tells o' never-ending care;

O' speechless grief and dark despair :
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!

Let me know, your very first leisure, how you like this song.

ON CHLORIS BEING ILL.

Tune-" Ay wakin', O."

I.

Long, long the night,

Heavy comes the morrow,
While my soul's delight

Is on her bed of sorrow.

Can I cease to care?

Can I cease to languish?
While my darling fair

Is on the couch of anguish?

II.

Every hope is fled,

Every fear is terror;

Slumber even I dread,
Every dream is horror.