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The Nith shall run to Corsincon,

And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe

On British ground to rally.
Oh, let us not, like snarling curs,

In wrangling be divided,
Till slap come in an unco loon,

And wi’ a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,

Among ourselves united;
For never but by British hands

Must British wrongs be righted.
The kettle o' the kirk and state,

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ;
But de'il a foreign tinkler loon

Shall ever ca' a nail in't.
Our fathers' blood the kettle bought,

And who would dare to spoil it,
By Heaven, the sacrilegious dog

Shall fuel be to boil it !

The wretch that would a tyrant own,

And the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who'd set the mob aboon the throne-

May they be damn’d together!
Who will not sing “ God save the king !"

Shall hing as high's the steeple;
But while we sing “God save the king !”

We'll ne'er forget the people. This song was written by Burns to the English air of “ Push about the jorum," or "Touch the thing.” The Scotch melody of " The barrin' of our door” was afterwards found for it.

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Written by DR. JOHN LEYDEN. The music by R. A. SMITH.
Land of my fathers! though no mangrove here
O’er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,

Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree;
Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free!
Free as his lord the peasant treads the plain,
And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain.

Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right,
And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might :
Dear native valleys, may ye long retain
The charter'd freedom of the mountain swain !
Long, mid your sounding glades, in union sweet,
May rural innocence and beauty meet;
And still be duly heard, at twilight calm,
From every cot the peasant's chanted psalm !

Then, Jedworth, though thy ancient choirs shall fade,
And time lay bare each lofty colonnade,
From the damp roof the massy sculptures die,
And in their vaults thy rifted arches lie;
Still in these vales shall angel harps prolong,
By Jed's pure stream, a sweeter ev’ning song
Than long processions once, with mystic zeal,
Pour’d to the harp and solemn organ's peal.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Written for Mr. Thomson's Collection, on the return of the Highland regiment from Waterloo.

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MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ;

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order ? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ;

All the blue bonnets are over the Border.
Many a banner spread flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story;
Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mountain glen ;

Fight for your queen and the old Scottish glory,

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing ;

Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing ;

Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, war-steeds are bounding;

Stand to your arms and march in good order ; England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray,

When the blue bonnets came over the Border.

This spirited song, by Sir Walter Scott, was founded upon “General Leslie's march to Longmarston Moor,” which appeared in Allan Ramsay's “ Tea-Table Miscellany," where it is marked as ancient, and as one of which Ramsay neither knew the age nor the author. It is of little or no merit, but is inserted here as a curiosity,

and as showing out of what rude materials Scott constructed the modern song, which has since become so celebrated.

GENERAL LESLIE'S MARCH TO LONGMARSTON MOOR.

March, march, why the deil dinna ye march?

Stand to your arms, my lads; fight in good order.
Front about, ye musketeers all,
Till ye come to the English Border.

Ştand till’t and fight like men,

True gospel to maintain;
The Parliament's blythe to see us a-coming.

When to the kirk we come,

We'll purge it ilka room
Frae Popish relics and a' sic innovation,

That a' the world may see

There's nane in the right but we
Of the auld Scottish nation.

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Jenny shall wear the hood,

Jockie the sark of God;
And the kist fu' o' whistles that maks

Our pipers braw
Shall hae them a'.
Whate'er come on it,
Busk up your plaids, my lads,
Cock up your bonnets.

OH, WHERE, TELL ME WHERE ?

Mrs. Grant of Laggan; born 1755, died 1838. Air—“The blue-bells of Scotland.”

Or, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone ?
Oh, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone ?
He's gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done,
And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.

Oh, where, tell me where did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh, where, tell me where did your Highland laddie stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing follow'd him the day he went away.

Oh, what, tell me what does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh, what, tell me what does your Highland laddie wear ?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star.

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