Who now commands the towers and lands, The royal right of Albany.

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray,
On bended knees most fervently,
The time may come, with pipe and drum,
We'll welcome hame fair Albany.1

ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL IN
LOCH TURIT.

WHY, ye tenants of the lake,
For me your watery haunt forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why
At my presence thus you fly?
Why disturb your social joys,
Parent, filial, kindred ties?
Common friend to you and me,
Nature's gifts to all are free:
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave,
Busy feed, or wanton lave;
Or, beneath the sheltering rock,

Bide the surging billow's shock.

1 Prince Charles, at his death in 1788, left the Duchess of Albany his sole heir, but she did not long survive him. The above song is printed from a portion of a manuscript book in Burns's handwriting, which is now in the possession of Mr. B. Nightingale, London.

Conscious, blushing for our race,
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace.
Man, your proud usurping foe,
Would be lord of all below:
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride,
Tyrant stern to all beside.

The eagle, from the cliffy brow,
Marking you his prey below,
In his breast no pity dwells,
Strong necessity compels:

But man, to whom alone is given
A ray direct from pitying Heaven,
Glories in his heart humane

And creatures for his pleasure slain.
In these savage, liquid plains,
Only known to wandering swains,
Where the mossy riv'let strays,
Far from human haunts and ways,
All on Nature you depend,

And life's poor season peaceful spend.
Or, if man's superior might

Dare invade your native right,

On the lofty ether borne,

Man with all his powers you scorn;

Swiftly seek, on clanging wings,
Other lakes and other springs;
And the foe you cannot brave,
Scorn at least to be his slave.

BLITHE WAS SHE

TUNE-Andro and his Cutty Gun.

The subject of these verses was Miss Euphemia Murray of Lintrose, a beautiful creature of eighteen, already distinguished by the sobriquet of the "Flower of Strathmore."

CHORUS.

BLITHE, blithe and merry was she,

Blithe was she but and ben: i. e. everywhere Blithe by the banks of Earn,

And blithe in Glenturit Glen.

By Auchtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;

But Phemie was a bonnier lass

Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.

Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;

She tripped by the banks o' Earn,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.

Her bonny face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lea;

oak

birch-woode

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.

The Highland hills I've wandered wide,
And o'er the lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blithest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.

Burns had taken up his residence with Mr. William Cruikshank, a master in the Edinburgh High School. Mr. Cruikshank had a daughter Janet, a young girl of budding loveliness, and much promise as a pianist. To her the poet was indebted for many pleasant hours, in listening to his favorite Scottish airs. He also employed her voice and instrument in enabling him to adapt new verses to old airs for the Scots Musical Museum. He gratefully celebrated his favorite, little Miss Jenny Cruikshank, in the two following pieces.

A ROSE-BUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,1
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,

All on a dewy morning.

An open space in a cornfield, generally a ridge left untilled.

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,

In a' its crimson glory spread,

And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest,
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast

Sae early in the morning.

She soon shall see her tender brood, The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed, Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair!
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care

guards

That tents thy early morning. So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay, Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, And bless the parent's evening ray

That watched thy early morning.