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Sing her thousand siller streams,
Bickering to the sunny beams;
Sing her sons beyond compare,
Sing her dochters peerless fair;
Sing, till winter's storms be o'er,
The matchless Bards that sung before,

And I, the meanest of the muse's train,
Shall join my feeble aid to swell the strain.

Dear Scotia, tho' thy clime be cauld,
Thy sons were ever brave and bauld,
Thy dochters modest, kind, and leal,
The fairest in creation's fiel';
Alike inur'd to every toil,

Thou'rt foremost in the battle broil,
Prepared alike in peace and weir,

To guide the plough or wield the spear;
As the mountain torrent raves,
Dashing thro' its rugged caves,
So the Scottish legions pour,
Dreadful in th' avenging hour:
But when Peace, with kind accord,
Bids them sheath the sated sword,

of Songs; but as the present publication will be embellished with his portrait it would be ridiculous not to insert a few of his pieces. We, therefore, intend to publish what we consider the happiest of his lyrical effusions, accompanied with short notices regarding them, extracted from original documents in the possession of some of his most intimate acquaintances, which, we are happy to state, through their kindness we shall be enabled to furnish; this will afford his admirers some idea of the manner and style of his Epistolary Writings, and which, we trust, will not be altogether unacceptable.

See them in their native vales,
Jocund as the summer gales,
Cheering labour all the day,

With some merry roundelay.

Dear Scotia, tho' thy nights be drear,
When surly winter rules the year,
Around thy cottage hearths are seen,
The glow of health, the cheerful mien ;
The mutual glance that fondly shares,
A neighbour's joys, a neighbour's cares.
Here oft, while raves the wind and weet,
The canty lads and lassies meet,
Sae light of heart, sae full of glee,
Their gaits sae artless and sae free,
The hours of joy come dancing on,
To share their frolic and their fun.
Here many a song and jest goes round,
With tales of ghosts and rites profound,
Perform'd in dreary wizard glen,

By runkled hags and warlock men ;
Or of the hell-fee'd crew combin'd

Carousing on the midnight wind,

On some infernal errand bent,

While darkness shrouds their black intent.

But chiefly, BURNS, thy songs delight,

To charm the weary winter night,
And bid the lingering moments flee,

Without a care unless for thee,

Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon,
And sought thy native sphere aboon.
Thy "Lovely Jean," thy "Nannie O,"
Thy much-lov'd "Caledonia,"
wha's in yonder town,”

"Wat ye

Thy
Thy "Banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,"

Thy "Shepherdess on Afton braes,"
Thy "Logan lassie's" bitter waes,

Are a' gane o'er sae sweetly tun'd,

That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound,

Fa's lown and sings with eerie slight,

"O let me in this ae, ae night."

Alas! our best, our dearest Bard, How poor, how great was his reward! Unaided he has fix'd his name,

Immortal in the rolls of fame;

Yet who can hear without a tear,
What sorrows wrung his manly breast,
To see his little helpless, filial band,
Imploring succour from a father's hand
And there no succour near?

Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest,

Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest:

For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone,

She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone.

Р

CLIV.

POOR NEGRO WOMAN, ULALEE.

My cruel love to danger go,

No think of pain he give to me; Too soon me fear like grief to know, As broke the heart of Ulalee! Poor negro woman, Ulalee.

Poor soul, to see her hang her head
All day beneath the cypress tree;
And still she sings, "My love be dead,"
The husband of poor Ulalee.

Poor negro woman, Ulalee!

My love be kill'd! how sweet he smil'd!
His smile again me never see :

Unless me see it in the child,
That he have left poor Ulalee.

Poor negro woman, Ulalee!

My baby to my breast I fold,

But little warmth, poor boy! have he,
His father's death made all so cold
About the heart of Ulalee,

Poor negro woman, Ulalee!

CLV.

CALEDONIA.*

Despite of every yoke she bears,

That land is glory's still and theirs.-Byron.

On Albyn's mist-clad hills of grey
The hosts of Rome, in olden day,
Gleam'd bright, beneath the unconscious ray
That smiled upon their victory.

On Albyn's steeps of strength, unfurled
Her banners mark'd a conquered world;
And in the wild breeze gaily curled—

The badge of proud supremacy.

*We extract this excellent piece of poetry from the Kilmarnock Mirror, a work of taste and merit, published monthly.

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