WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST WAS BLAWN.
TUNE-" The mill mill, O."

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy;
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

Nature gladdening and adorning;
Such to me, my lovely maid.
When absent frae my fair,

The murky shades o' care

With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky;

But when in beauty's light,

She meets my ravish'd sight,
When through my very heart
Her beaming glories dart;

"Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy.

Our Bard himself seems to think, that it would not be benefited by an alteration. "I could," says he, " easily throw this into an English mould; but to my taste, in the simple and the tender of the pastoral song, a sprinkling of the old Scottish has an inimitable effect." We should imagine that the justness of the observation is unquestionable. Simplicity in language is surely the best calculated to express the tenderest emotions of the human heart. It will be observed, however, that this song has suffered but little in the alteration; and that it possesses a richness and pathos seldom equalled by any of our best English pieces.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom
O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain would be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country langTake pity on a sodger!

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever; Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed, Forget him shall I never: Our humble cot and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it; That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By Him who made yon sun and sky-
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true hearted;

Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair wese ne'er be parted.

Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin' plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger:
Remember, he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.

SWEET ELLEN OF THE DALE.

TUNE-" Maid of Erin."

No hope, no comfort near me,
I sit me down and sigh;
Alas! she will not hear me;
Her tears are her reply.
She spurns my faithful bosom,
She scorns my lovelorn tale;
Still fades the lovely blossom,
Sweet Ellen of the dale.

She loved, she loved another,
And still his loss deplores;
Nought can her passion smother
For him she still adores.
She hears a faithful lover

His hapless lot bewail;

No tears nor sighs can move her,
Sweet Ellen of the dale. *

By the author of the Farewell to Avondale.

BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL.

TUNE-" Liggeram Cosh."

BLYTHE hae I been on yon hill,
As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free,
As the breeze flew o'er me.
Now nae langer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me:
Lesley is sae fair and coy,

Care and anguish seize me.
Heavy, heavy is the task,
Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling I do nocht but glow'r,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws,
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod,
Soon maun be my dwelling.

*

POOR MARY.

TUNE-"A' body's like to get married but me."

I MET my dear lassie short syne in yon dale,
But deep was her sigh, and her cheek it was pale;
And sad the saft smile that was heaven to see:
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy-like me.

* BURNS, in a letter to THOMSON, says, 66 Blythe hae I been on the hill is one of the finest songs I ever made in my life, and be sides is composed on a young lady positively the most beautiful, lovely woman in the world." It is certainly a charming song, but we do not think, that it can at all be set in the same line with the Banks of the Devon or Highland Mary.

A feverish heat has depriv'd o' their bloom,
Her lips, ance sae rosy, exhaling perfume;
An' chang'd is the glance o' her blythe hazel ee,-
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy-like me.

'Twas thus a fair flow'ret adorn'd my lone walk,
But chill blew the east on its tender green stalk:
No more its sweet blossoms allure the wild bee--
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy—like me.

If I were but destin'd to ca' her my ain,
I'd shield her sae fondly frae sna', win', an' rain;
And, nightly, this bosom her pillow wad be:-
Poor Mary, I fear, is unhappy-like me.

Detraction and malice-society's pest!

I know 'tis your venom that pains her pure breast; But, O for that haven, 'yont life's stormy sea, Where Mary, I trust, shall be happy wi' me ! *

MATTY.

WHILE Phœbus reposes in Thetis's bosom,
While white thro' the branches the moonlight is seen;
Here, lonely, I rove, near the old hawthorn's blossom,
To meet with my Matty, and stray o'er the green.

Nor hardship, nor care, now my bosom harasses,
My moments, from fame and its nonsense are free;
Ambition I leave to the folly of asses,

For Matty is fame and ambition to me.

By Mr. A. FLETCHER.

Dd