ALEXANDER HUME.

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shadeAnd a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said;But nae reply my lassie gied—I blamed the waterfa';Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'!Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'!I wonder how the birds can woo—oh, it cowes a'!"I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove,Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love;Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa';Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'!Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!"To woo I 'll try anither way—for this cowes a'!"I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell,Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well;Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma',And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'!Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave—oh, ye cowe a'!""I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet lass; on Sunday we 'll be cried,And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride."Quo' she, "I 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;""The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'!Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!But wilfu' folk maun hae their way—oh, ye cowe a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove,Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love;Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa';Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'!Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!"To woo I 'll try anither way—for this cowes a'!"

I wiled my lass wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell,Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well;Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma',And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'!Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave—oh, ye cowe a'!"

"I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet lass; on Sunday we 'll be cried,And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride."Quo' she, "I 'd need anither week to mak a gown mair braw;""The gown ye hae, we 'll mak it do!" "Oh, ye cowe a'!Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!But wilfu' folk maun hae their way—oh, ye cowe a'!"

Alexander Hume was born at Edinburgh on the 17th February 1811. He is employed as a journeyman cabinetmaker in that city. As a musical composer he has attained considerable eminence. The following popular songs from his pen are published with music of his own composition.

Oh, bonnie Nelly Brown, I will sing a song to thee;Though oceans wide between us row, ye 'll aye be dear to me;Though mony a year 's gane o'er my head since, down in Linton's dell,I took my last fond look o' thee, my ain dear Nell.Oh, tell me, Nelly Brown, do you mind our youthfu' days,When we ran about the burnie's side, or speel'd the gow'ny braes;When I pu'd the crawpea's blossom, an' the bloomin' heather-bell,To twine them round thy bonnie brow, my ain dear Nell!How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea,Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree;Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell—Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell!And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear,We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear;We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell,For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hairIs snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair,Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell,For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell!Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee,Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me,As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell—Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!

How often, Nelly Brown, hae we wander'd o'er the lea,Where grow the brier, the yellow bloom, an' flowery hawthorn-tree;Or sported 'mang the leafy woods, till nicht's lang shadows fell—Oh, we ne'er had thoughts o' partin' then, my ain dear Nell!And in winter, Nelly Brown, when the nichts were lang an' drear,We would creep down by the ingle side, some fairy tale to hear;We cared nae for the snawy drift, or nippin' frost sae snell,For we lived but for each other then, my ain dear Nell!

They tell me, Nelly Brown, that your bonnie raven hairIs snaw-white now, an' that your brow, sae cloudless ance an' fair,Looks care-worn now, and unco sad; but I heed na what they tell,For I ne'er can think you 're changed to me, my ain dear Nell!Ance mair then, Nelly Brown, I hae sung o' love and thee,Though oceans wide between us row, ye 're aye the same to me,As when I sigh'd my last farewell in Linton's flowery dell—Oh, I ne'er can tine my love for thee, my ain dear Nell!

Mary, dearest maid, I leave thee,Hame, and frien's, and country dear;Oh! ne'er let our pairtin' grieve thee,Happier days may soon be here.See yon bark, sae proudly bounding,Soon shall bear me o'er the sea,Hark! the trumpet loudly soundingCalls me far frae love and thee.Summer flowers shall cease to blossom;Streams run backward frae the sea;Cauld in death maun be this bosom,Ere it cease to throb for thee.Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin',Shed by Heaven, around thee fa';Ae last time thy loved form pressin'—Think o' me when far awa'.

Summer flowers shall cease to blossom;Streams run backward frae the sea;Cauld in death maun be this bosom,Ere it cease to throb for thee.Fare-thee-weel! may every blessin',Shed by Heaven, around thee fa';Ae last time thy loved form pressin'—Think o' me when far awa'.

The Rev. John Macdonald, D.D., one of the most popular of Gaelic preachers, was born in 1778. He was ordained minister of the Gaelic Church, Edinburgh, in 1806, and was afterwards translated to the parish of Urquhart, in Ross-shire. While at Urquhart, he began a career of remarkable ministerial success; though it was as a missionary, or visitor of other Highland districts, that he established his professional fame. His powerful voice is said to have reached and moved thousands of auditors assembled in the open air. A long-expected volume of Gaelic poetry, consisting chiefly of elegies, hymns, and sacred lyrics, appeared from his pen in 1848. Dr Macdonald died in 1849. At the Disruption in 1843, he had joined the Free Church.

The descriptive portion of a sacred lyric composed by Dr Macdonald on the occasion of his first visit to St Kilda, often called "The Hirt" or "Hirta," after the Gaelic. His missionary enterprise was blessed, we believe, with remarkable success.

I see, I see the Hirta, the land of my desire,And the missionary spirit within me is on fire;But needs it all—for, bristling from the bosom of the sea,Those giant crags are menacing, but welcome rude to me;The eye withdraws in horror from yon mountains rude and bare,Where flag of green nor tree displays, nor blushes flow'ret fair.And how shall bark so frail as mine that beetling beach come near,Where rages betwixt cliff and surf the battle-din of fear?It seems as, like a rocking hull, that Island of the mainWere shaken from its basement, and creaking with the strain!But the siege of waters nought prevails 'gainst giant Hirt the grim,Save his face to furrow with some scars, or his brow with mist to dim.Oh, needs a welcome to that shore, for well my thought might say,'Twere better than that brow to face that I were leagues away.But no, not so! what fears should daunt,—for what welcomes e'er outranThe welcome that I bring with me, my call from God and man?Nor vain my trust! my helmsman, He who sent me, now is steering,And, by His power, the wave-worn craft the shore in calm is nearing,And scarce my foot was on the beach when two hundred echoes spakeTheir welcome, and a hundred hands flew forth my hand to take.And he, believe me, has his best protection by his sideWho bears the call of God and man, from the reef, the crag, the tide;And, for welcome on the shore, give me the flashing eyes that glow'd,When I told the men of Hirt the news I brought them from their God!

Duncan Kennedy was born about the year 1758. His father was gardener to Mr M'Lachlan of Kilanahanach, in the parish of Glassary, Argyleshire. In his youth he enjoyed the advantage of attending the parish school, which was then conducted by an able classical scholar. At an early age he was qualified to become an instructor of youth in a remote part of his native parish, and there he had frequent opportunities of becoming acquainted with "Iain Bàn Maor" the Gaelic poet, and enjoyed the privilege of listening to the eminent Daniel Campbell and other pious ministers in the surrounding parishes. He was promoted to the parish school of Kilmelford about the year 1784, and soon thereafter published his collection of "Hymns and Spiritual Songs." During his summer vacations he travelled over the districts of Kintyre, Argyle, and Lorn, in search of legends concerning the Fingalians, and was successful in collecting a mass of information, which in Gaelic verse he styled "Sean dana." The MS. of his researches he intrusted to the perusal of a neighbouring clergyman, from whom he was never able to recover it, a circumstance which led him afterwards to inveigh against the clerical order. From Kilmelford parish school, Kennedy in 1790 removed to Glasgow, where he was engaged, first as an accountant, and afterwards in mercantile pursuits. At one period he realised about £10,000, but he was latterly unfortunate and indigent. During his old age he was allowed a small pensionfrom "The Glasgow Merchants' Home." Several years subsequent to 1830 he resided at Ardrisaig in Argyleshire. His death took place at Glasgow in 1836. He has left a MS. ready for publication, entitled "The Ark of Ancient Knowledge." His volume of hymns has passed into a second edition.

With a breezy burst of singingBlow we out the flames of rage!Europe's peace, through Europe ringing,Is, of peace, our lifetime pledge.Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,Faldar, aldar, aldar, e';Faldar, aldar, aldar, ari,Faldar, ari, faldar, e'.Every musket to the guard-house,And its lead to furlough send—To the tilling of the meadowsEvery gallant bayonet bend.See, a lusty fleet is steeringHomewards, to the shore of peace;And brave hearts, a host, are nearingTo the expectant dear's embrace.See the kilted HighlanderAs from Egypt's battles come—Westlander and Norlander,Eager for the sight of home.Seven years orphan'd of their fathers,Shelterless and sad no more,Quite a little army gathers,Shouting welcomes from the shore.All the echoes are in motion,All the sheilings ring with glee,Since, of peace, the paths of oceanGive the news a passage free.The birds the dash of oars was scaring—Hush'd their note, but soon they raise,To their wonted branch repairing,Sweetest numbers on the sprays.Seem the woods to dance a measure,Nodding as the notes inspire—And their branches, as with pleasure,Add their music to the choir.Of the streamlet, every murmurSweetly swells the song of peace,Chanting, with each vocal charmer,Joys that bloom and wars that cease.

Every musket to the guard-house,And its lead to furlough send—To the tilling of the meadowsEvery gallant bayonet bend.

See, a lusty fleet is steeringHomewards, to the shore of peace;And brave hearts, a host, are nearingTo the expectant dear's embrace.

See the kilted HighlanderAs from Egypt's battles come—Westlander and Norlander,Eager for the sight of home.

Seven years orphan'd of their fathers,Shelterless and sad no more,Quite a little army gathers,Shouting welcomes from the shore.

All the echoes are in motion,All the sheilings ring with glee,Since, of peace, the paths of oceanGive the news a passage free.

The birds the dash of oars was scaring—Hush'd their note, but soon they raise,To their wonted branch repairing,Sweetest numbers on the sprays.

Seem the woods to dance a measure,Nodding as the notes inspire—And their branches, as with pleasure,Add their music to the choir.

Of the streamlet, every murmurSweetly swells the song of peace,Chanting, with each vocal charmer,Joys that bloom and wars that cease.

Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15]who then was employed in the vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate. His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is popular in the Highlands.

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,And but a poor wittol to see.If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',She 's a shame and sorrow to me.If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,And the talk of the clachan are we.She 's ailing for ever—my welcome is small,If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all;Contention and strife, in the but and the hall,Are ready to greet my return.Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever,I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever,I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever—Short while would suffice me to mourn.It was not her face, or dress, or riches,It was not a heart pierced through with stitches—'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witchesThat brought me a bargain like Janet.O when, in the spring I return from the plough,And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,Or a kick, if her foot is within it.No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressingThe core of my heart with her bother.For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,For a hag can you shew such another?No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,And leave the reception for me.O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,And but a poor wittol to see!

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,And but a poor wittol to see.

If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',She 's a shame and sorrow to me.If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,And the talk of the clachan are we.

She 's ailing for ever—my welcome is small,If I bring for her nonsense no cordial at all;Contention and strife, in the but and the hall,Are ready to greet my return.Oh, did he come to us, our bondage to sever,I would cry, Be on Death benedictions for ever,I would jump it so high, and I 'd jig it so clever—Short while would suffice me to mourn.

It was not her face, or dress, or riches,It was not a heart pierced through with stitches—'Twas the glamour of more than a hundred witchesThat brought me a bargain like Janet.O when, in the spring I return from the plough,And fain at the ingle would bask at its low,Her bauchle is off, and I 'm sure of a blow,Or a kick, if her foot is within it.

No thrift she is plying, no cakes she is dressing,No babe of her bosom in fondness caressing;Be up she, or down she, she 's ever distressingThe core of my heart with her bother.For a groat, for a groat with goodwill I would sell her,As the bark of the oak is the tan of her leather,And a bushel of coals would avail but to chill her,For a hag can you shew such another?

No tooth in her head, and a squint in her eye,At the dusk of the day, when her choler is high,The bairns, nay, the team I 've unhalter'd, they fly,And leave the reception for me.O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,And but a poor wittol to see!

Kenneth Mackenzie was born in 1758, at Caisteal Leanir, near Inverness. By his parents, who were possessed of considerable means, he was well educated at the best schools in his native district. He became a seaman in his seventeenth year; and while on board composed verses as a relief to labour, and for the entertainment of his shipmates. In 1789 he quitted the seafaring life, and commenced to itinerate for subscribers to enable him to publish his poems. Through the influence of the Earl of Buchan, to whom he was recommended by his talents, he procured an officer's commission in the 78th Highland Regiment. He latterly accepted the situation of Postmaster in a provincial town in Ireland. The date of his death is unknown, but he is understood to have attained an advanced age. His habits were exemplary, and he was largely imbued with feelings of hospitality.

My darling is the philabeg,With scarlet hosen for the leg,And the spotted curtal coat so trig,And the head blue-bonneted.The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,Confusion take the breechen gear,My limbs be fetterless and bare,And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]Oh, well I love theeididh[17]free,When it sends me bounding on the lea,Or up the brae so merrily,There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.Give me the plaid, and on the hillI 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,And not a shiver from the chillShall pierce my trusty coverlet.And for the tartan's lively flame,In glen or clachan 'tis the same,Alike it pleases lass and dame—Unmatched its glories ever yet.Be mine in Highland graith array'd,With weapon trim the glens to tread,And rise a stag of foremost head,Then let him tent my culiver.And when I marshal to the feast,With deer-skin belt around my waist,And in its fold a dirk embraced,Then Roland match shall Oliver.

My darling is the philabeg,With scarlet hosen for the leg,And the spotted curtal coat so trig,And the head blue-bonneted.

The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,Confusion take the breechen gear,My limbs be fetterless and bare,And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]

Oh, well I love theeididh[17]free,When it sends me bounding on the lea,Or up the brae so merrily,There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.

Give me the plaid, and on the hillI 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,And not a shiver from the chillShall pierce my trusty coverlet.

And for the tartan's lively flame,In glen or clachan 'tis the same,Alike it pleases lass and dame—Unmatched its glories ever yet.

Be mine in Highland graith array'd,With weapon trim the glens to tread,And rise a stag of foremost head,Then let him tent my culiver.

And when I marshal to the feast,With deer-skin belt around my waist,And in its fold a dirk embraced,Then Roland match shall Oliver.

John Campbell (Ian Bàn), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire,was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much popularity among the Gael.

Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drivesThe clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rivesThe image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurlsOur world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm,And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere,And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?That airy dance, what signifies the madness that inspires?The king, the clown, alike is borne along, alike expires.Come let us try another weird—the tempest let us chain;A bridle for the passions ho! for giant pride a rein!Thus quelleth grace the master-craft that was the cause of allThe ruin that befell us in the whirlwind of the Fall.

The Rev. James Macgregor, D.D., Presbyterian minister at Nova Scotia, was born in 1762, in the vicinity of Comrie, Perthshire. He entered on ministerial duty in Nova Scotia shortly after becoming a probationer, and continued in this important sphere of clerical labour to the close of his life. He died at Pictou on the 1st of March 1830, in his 68th year. Dr Macgregor composed excellent sacred verses in Gaelic. His general scholarship and attainments were publicly acknowledged by his receiving the degree of Doctor of Divinity from the University of Glasgow.

Of learning long a scantling was the portion of the Gael,Untaught by calculation's art their loss or gain to unveil,Though well was seen the Saxon's power their interest to betray;But now, to knowledge thanks, the Gael are letter-wise as they.Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground,Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around;Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire,To all her native darkness she must in despair retire.Each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scaleWill mount the inspirations of the language of the Gael.* * * * *Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head,As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread;Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom,And well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home.No more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud—No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold,When he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old,In iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear;Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear,That sympathy or fondness ask,—and the sad world is fainTo welcome its return to love and innocence again.

Well fare the benefactors who have raised us from the ground,Even as were raised from brutal dust our countrymen around;Now ignorance shall furl her wing, and while our hopes aspire,To all her native darkness she must in despair retire.Each nook will have its scholar craft, and high in learning's scaleWill mount the inspirations of the language of the Gael.

* * * * *

Yes! now the trusty Highlander aloft shall raise his head,As large as is his native worth, his wealthy arts shall spread;Inventions crowd to save him from the poor man's bitter doom,And well-taught skill, to grace with comfort's ray his humblest home.No more o'er weakness shall exult the mighty and the proud—No more in nakedness shall 'plain his lot the wretch aloud.

O, sure are coming nigh our hills the auspices foretold,When he shall fail to vaunt his power who chain'd our sires of old,In iron bands who held them fast, but now he droops with fear;Delusion's age is past, and strife avows the smile, the tear,That sympathy or fondness ask,—and the sad world is fainTo welcome its return to love and innocence again.

END OF VOL. IV.

EDINBURGH: PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY.

FOOTNOTES:[1]The present Memoir has been prepared at our request by the veteran William Jerdan, late of theLiterary Gazette.[2]Composed on board the steamship Niagara, on her voyage to New York, in August 1849.[3]One of the stanzas of this song is the composition of the late Mary Russell Mitford and appears in her tale of Atherton. The other stanza was composed by Mr Bennoch, at the urgent request of his much loved friend.[4]She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many more, but she could not do it to all; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.—Soldier's Letter from the Crimea.[5]"Before she came there was cussin' and swearin', but after that it was as holy as a church."—Ibid.[6]Here first published.[7]This song was originally Published in theScots' Magazinefor October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to Allan Ramsay.[8]This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.[9]This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.[10]Here printed for the first time.[11]These verses were composed when the author was suffering from a severe pulmonary complaint which he feared would bring him to an early grave. They were addressed to his sister, a girl of five years, who at this period was his companion in his walks.[12]To Mr Disseret of Edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of Mr Maclagan's personal history.[13]See vol. ii., p. 120.[14]This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair to the present work.[15]See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.[16]Hen-pecked (Sc.), fromdonned, silly woman.[17]Highland garb.[18]Composed on hearing of the late Principal Baird's successful expedition to the Highlands, for the purpose of establishing the General Assembly's Schools.

[1]The present Memoir has been prepared at our request by the veteran William Jerdan, late of theLiterary Gazette.

[2]Composed on board the steamship Niagara, on her voyage to New York, in August 1849.

[3]One of the stanzas of this song is the composition of the late Mary Russell Mitford and appears in her tale of Atherton. The other stanza was composed by Mr Bennoch, at the urgent request of his much loved friend.

[4]She would speak to one and to another, and nod and smile to many more, but she could not do it to all; but we could kiss her shadow as it fell, and lay our heads on the pillow again, content.—Soldier's Letter from the Crimea.

[5]"Before she came there was cussin' and swearin', but after that it was as holy as a church."—Ibid.

[6]Here first published.

[7]This song was originally Published in theScots' Magazinefor October 1806. In the "Book of Scottish Song," it has been attributed to Allan Ramsay.

[8]This song has been erroneously assigned to Burns.

[9]This lyric and the following are printed from the author's MSS.

[10]Here printed for the first time.

[11]These verses were composed when the author was suffering from a severe pulmonary complaint which he feared would bring him to an early grave. They were addressed to his sister, a girl of five years, who at this period was his companion in his walks.

[12]To Mr Disseret of Edinburgh we are indebted for the particulars of Mr Maclagan's personal history.

[13]See vol. ii., p. 120.

[14]This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair to the present work.

[15]See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.

[16]Hen-pecked (Sc.), fromdonned, silly woman.

[17]Highland garb.

[18]Composed on hearing of the late Principal Baird's successful expedition to the Highlands, for the purpose of establishing the General Assembly's Schools.

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