CAM' YE BY ATHOLE BRAES?

HOGG.

CAM' ye by Athole braes, lad wi' the philabeg,

Down by the Tummel, or banks of the Garry? Saw ye my lad with his bonnet and white cockade, Leaving his mountains to follow Prince Charlie? Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee?

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee?

King of the Highland hearts, bonny Prince Charlie !

I hae but ae son, my brave young Donald;

But if I had ten, they should follow Glengarry: Health to Macdonald and gallant Clanronald,

For they are the men that wad die for their Charlie.

Charlie, Charlie, &c.

I'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them,
Down by Lord Murray and Roy of Kildarlie;
Brave Macintosh, he shall fly to the field wi' them;
They are the lads I can trust with my Charlie.

Charlie, Charlie, &c.

Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore, Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely! Ronald and Donald, drive on wi' the brave claymore Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie !

The REV. JOHN SKINNER, episcopal minister of Longside, near Peterhead,
Aberdeenshire, born 1721, died 1807.

COME, gi'e's a sang, Montgomery cried,

And lay your disputes all aside,

What signifies't for folks to chide

For what's been done before them?

Let Whig and Tory all agree,

Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,

Let Whig and Tory all agree,

To drop their Whig-mig-morum;

*It is related that the author of this song was at dinner at the house of a lady named Montgomery, that the guests became excited on a political dispute, and that Mrs. Montgomery asked Mr. Skinner for a song, to put an end to it; expressing at the same time her surprise that so capital a tune as the "Reel of Tullochgorum" had no words to which it could be sung. Mr. Skinner afterwards pro

Let Whig and Tory all agree

To spend the night in mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing alang wi' me
The reel of Tullochgorum.

Oh, Tullochgorum's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him.
Blythe and merry we's be a',
Blythe and merry, blythe and merry,
Blythe and merry we's be a',

And mak' a cheerfu' quorum.
Blythe and merry we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',

The reel of Tullochgorum.

duced this celebrated effusion, which, in Burns's opinion, was entitled to rank "as the first of songs."

The Rev. John Skinner, being asked by Mr. Fergusson, of Pitfour, what he could do to make him comfortable, gave the following answer:

"Lodged in a canty cell of nine feet square,

Bare bread and sowans and milk my belly's fare;

Shoes for my feet, soft clothing for my back

If warm, no matter whether blue or black:

In such a sober, low, contented state,

What comfort now need I from rich or great?

Now in my eightieth year, my thread near spun,
My race through poverty and labour run,
Wishing to be by all my flock beloved,
And for long service by my Judge approved;
Death at my door and heaven in my eye,
From rich or great what comfort now need I?

Let but our sacred edifice go on
With cheerfulness until the work be done;

Let but my flock be faithfully supplied,
My friends all with their lot well satisfied;
Then, oh, with joy and comfort from on high
Let me in Christian quiet calmly die,
And lay my ashes in my Grizel's grave,
'Tis all I wish upon the earth to have!

Thus lifted up above all vain desire,

And quench'd each foolish spark of passion's fire,
Deprived of her I justly held so dear,
Nor plagued with idle hope or idle fear,
The smiles or frowns of fortune I defy;

From rich or great what comfort now need I?"

There needs na' be sae great a phraise,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys
For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best,
Wi' a' their variorum.

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros, and a' the rest,
They canna please a Highland taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fears of want and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.

Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum ?
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit

At the reel of Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest open-hearted friend,

And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him !

May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' 'em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstain'd by any vicious blot!
And may he never want a groat
That's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the dirty, fawning fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy knaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him!

May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And nane say, Wae's me for 'im!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
And a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be, that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum !

THE EWIE WI' THE CROOKIT HORN.

REV. JOHN SKINNER.

Он, were I able to rehearse
My ewie's praise in proper verse,
I'd sound it out as loud and fierce
As ever piper's drone could blaw!
A' that kenn'd her would hae sworn
Sic a ewie ne'er was born

Thereabouts, nor far awa'.

She neither needed tar nor keel
To mark her upon hip or heel,
Her crookit hornie did as weel
To ken her by amang them a'.

She never threaten'd scab nor rot,
But keepit aye her ain jog-trot;
Both to the fauld and to the cot,

Was never sweir to lead nor ca'.

A better nor a thriftier beast
Nae honest man need e'er hae wish'd;
For, silly thing, she never miss'd

To hae ilk year a lamb or twa.

The first she had I gae to Jock,
To be to him a kind o' stock;
And now the laddie has a flock

Of mair than thretty head and twa.