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I'll lead thee to the birken bow'r, on yon burn side, Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flow'r, on yon burn side:

There the busy prying eye,

Ne'er disturbs the lover's joy, While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side. Awa, ye rude unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side, Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side:

There fancy smooths her theme,

By the sweetly murm’ring stream, And the rock-lodg'd echoes skim, down by yon burn side. Now the plantin' taps are ting'd wi' goud, on yon burn

side, And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud, o'er yon burn side:

Far frae the noisy scene,

I'll thro' the fields alane, There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean! down by yon

burn side.

Tune-"Good night, and joy be wi' you a'.”
How dear to think on former days,

And former scenes I've wanderd o'er;
They well deserve a Poet's praise,

In lofty rhyme they ought to soar.
How oft I've wander'd by the Clyde,

When night obscur’d the landscape near,
To hear its murm'ring waters glide,

And think upon my Mary dear.
And when the moon shot forth her light,

Sweet glimm’ring through the distant trees,
How sweet to pass the peaceful night,

And breathe, serene, the passing breeze.

and joy,

Tho' grand these scenes of peace

'Tis not for them I'd drop the tear; Remembrance will my heart annoy,

When thinking on my Mary dear.
Far from my friends, far from my home,

I wander on a distant shore;
Far from those scenes I us'd to roam,

And scenes perhaps I'll tread no more. My fancy still beholds the Clyde,

Her scenes of grandeur now appear; What power can e'er my thoughts divide,

From Clyde's fair banks and Mary dear. No power on earth can change my heart,

Or tear these scenes from out my mind; And when this world and I shall part,

For them I'll cast a look behind. Swift fly the time until we meet;

Swift fly away each day and year, Until my early friends I greet,

And kiss again my Mary dear. *

I wish I were where Helen lies,
Where night and day on me she cries;
I wish I were where Helen lies,

On fair Kirkconnell lea!

Oh Helen fair! oh Helen chaste!
Were I with thee I would be blest,
Where thou liest low and at thy rest,

On fair Kirkconnell lea!

* By a Mr. D. WEIR of Greenock.

Oh Helen fair beyond compare,
I'll make a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair,

Until the day I die!
I wish my grave were growing green,
A winding sheet put o'er my een;
I wish my grave were growing green,

On fair Kirkconnell lea!
Curs'd be the heart that hatch'd the thought,
And curs'd the hand that fir'd the shot,
When in my arms my Helen drop'd,

And died to succour me.
O think na ye my heart was sair,
My love dropt down and spake nae mair !
O think na ye my heart was sair

On fair Kirkconnell lea.
Where Helen lies, where Helen lies,
I wish I were where Helen lies;
Soon may I be where Helen lies,

Who died for love of me.

* The story of the above Ballad is thus given by Mr. PenNant in his Tour through Scotland:-" In the burying ground of Kirkconnell is the grave of the fair Helen Irvine, and that of her lover: She was daughter of the house of Kirkconnell, and was beloved by two gentlemen at the same time: the one vowed to sacrifice the successful rival to his resentment, and watched an opportunity while the happy pair were sitting on the banks of the Kirtle, that washes these grounds. HELEN perceived the desperate lover on the opposite side, and fondly thinking to save her favourite, interposed, and receiving the wound intended for her beloved, fell and expired in his arms. He instantly revenged her death, then fled into Spain, and served for some time against the Infidels. On his return he visited the grave of his unfortunate mistress, stretched himself on it, and expiring on the THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOL.

TUNE-" Hey tuttie taitie."
Broad set the sun o'er wild Glencoe,
Red gleam'd the heights of drifted snow,
And loud and hoarse the torrent's flow

Dash'd through the drear domain.
Bright shines the hearth's domestic blaze,
The dancers bound in wanton maze,
And merry minstrels tune their lays

Blythe o'er the mountain reign.
Yon level sun sinks down in blood,
Low'ring o'er dark ingratitude;
It warns the guileless and the good,

Glencoe's wo-fated clan.
Each smiling host salutes his guest,
“ Good night,”-that hand so kindly prest
Shall plunge the dagger in thy breast

Long ere the orient dawn.
All's still!—but hark! from height to height
Comes rushing on the breeze of night,
The startling shriek of wild affright,

The hoarse assassin yell!
Is there no arm on high to save
From foulest death the trustful brave !-
Each by his threshold found a grave,

Or where he slumber'd fell!

spot, was interred by her side. A sword and a cross are engraren on the tomb stone, with · Hic jacet Adam FLEMING;' the only memorial of this gentleman, except an ancient ballad, of no great merit, which records this tragical event.” Mr. PENNANT probably alludes to that edition of the ballad which is given in the Statistical acconnt of the parish of Kilpatrick-Fleming: it is much longer than the forėgoing, and contains some meagre and incongruous versos.

What eye

Red rose the sun o'er lone Glencoe;

shall mark that crimson'd snow,
What ear shall list the torrent's flow

Dashing the dreary wild.
Round sheal and hamlet's sheltering rock
High soars destruction's volum'd smoke,
But hush'd the shriek which maddening broke

From mother, maiden, child.
All's still !-save round yon mountain's head,
Where men of blood the snow-path tread,
Startling lest voices from the dead

A deed of hell proclaim.
Wo! for thy clan, thou wild Glencoe!
Whose blood dyes deep the mountain snow;
But deadlier bale, and deeper wo

Glenorchy on thy name.


* The above excellent stanzas are from the pen of the author of the romance of Clan-albin, and exhibit but a faint picture of that night of blood which will never be blotted out from the memory of Highlanders. That horrible transaction has thrown an indelible stain upon King William; and notwithstanding the address of the Scottish parliament, in 1695, by which he was solemnly exculpated, his memory must still be loaded with the suspicion of having concerted, countenanced, and enforced this barbarous execution, especially as the Master of Stair, then secretary for Scotland, escaped with impunity, and the other actors of the tragedy, far from being punished, were preferred in the service. In the year 1691, as the Highlanders, who were fondly attached to the Stuart family, had not totally submitted to the authority of William, Earl of Breadalbane undertook to bring them over, by distributing sums of money among their chiefs: and £15,000 were remitted from England for this purpose. The clans being informed of this remittance, suspected that the Earl's design was to appropriate to himself the best part of the money; and when he began to treat with them, made such extravagant demands, that he found his scheme impracticable.

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