The English Rose was ne'er sae red,
The Shamrock waved whare glory led,
And the Scottish Thistle raised its head
An' smiled upon Vittoria.

Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
Whare thousands fought and mony fell;
But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell
At the battle of Vittoria.

The Paris maids may ban them a',
Their lads are maistly wede awa,
An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw
They lie upon Vittoria.

Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees,
The Eagle standard-bearer flees,

While the "meteor-flag" floats to the breeze,
An' wantons on Vittoria.
Britannia's glory there was shown
By the undaunted Wellington,
An' the tyrant trembled on his throne,
Whan hearin' o' Vittoria.

Peace to the spirits o' the brave,
Let a' their trophies for them wave,
An' green be our Cadogan's grave
Upon thy field, Vittoria!
There let eternal laurels bloom,
While maidens mourn his early doom,
An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb
Wi' roses on Vittoria.

Ye Caledonian war-pipes, play;
Barossa heard your Highlan' lay,

An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day
A prelude to Vittoria.

Shout to the heroes-swell ilk voice

To them wha made poor Spain rejoice;
Shout Wellington an' Lynedoch, boys,
Barossa an' Vittoria !

BACK AGAIN..

ANONYMOUS. About the year 1801.

WHEN Abercromby, gallant Scot,
Made Britain's faes to tack again,
To fight by him it was my lot;

But now I'm safe come back again.
The cannons didna Donald fleg,—
I'd like to hear them crack again;
My fears were for my bonnie Meg,
Lest I should ne'er come back again.
Our leader fell,-so died the brave,
We'll never see his like again;
I was denied a sodger's grave,

For I am safe come back again.

It's true they've ta'en frae me a leg;

But wha for that would mak' a maen? Cheer up your heart, my bounie Meg,

I've brought a leal heart back again.

And though the wound it carried smart, And twitch'd me sair wi' rackin' pain, Wi' honour's scars I wadna part,

Nor yet my leg take back again.

Cheer up your heart since I am here,

Wi' smiles your cheek gae deck again;

Cheer up, my lass, an' dinna fear,

Your Donald's safe come back again. Though mony a rattlin' blast has blawn, There's plenty in the stack again;

My wee lock siller's a' your ain

Now sin' I'm safe come back again.

Now may the wars for ever cease,

Your heart nae mair to rack again; And may we live in love and peace,

Sin' Donald's safe come back again. But should my country call me forth, Her freedom to protect again, Claymore in hand I'd leave the North,

If I should ne'er come back again.

CALEDONIA! thou land of the mountain and rock,
Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind;

Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,
Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind;
Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens,
Though bleak thy dun islands appear,

Yet kind are the hearts and undaunted the clans
That roam on these mountains so drear.

A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,
Could never thy ardour restrain;
The marshall'd array of imperial Rome
Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain!
Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,

Of genius unshackled and free,

The Muses have left all the vales of the south,

My loved Caledonia, for thee!

Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,
Where loveliness slumbers at even,

While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps
A calm little motionless heaven!

Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,

Of the storm and the proud rolling wave-
Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,
And the land of my forefather's grave!

THE THISTLE OF SCOTLAND.

Air-"The Black Joke."

LET them boast of the country gave Patrick his fame, Of the land of the ocean and Anglian name,

With the red-blushing roses and shamrock so green : Far dearer to me are the hills of the North, The land of blue mountains, the birth-place of worth; Those mountains where Freedom has fix'd her abode, Those wide-spreading glens where no slave ever trode, Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green.

Though rich be the soil where blossoms the rose,
And barren the mountains and cover'd with snows
Where blooms the red heather and thistle so green;
Yet for friendship sincere, and for loyalty true,
And for courage so bold which no foe could subdue,
Unmatch'd is our country, unrivall'd our swains,
And lovely and true are the nymphs on our plains,
Where rises the thistle, the thistle so green.

yore,

Far-famed are our sires in the battles of
And many the cairnies that rise on our shore
O'er the foes of the land of the thistle so green;
And many a cairnie shall rise on our strand,
Should the torrent of war ever burst on our land.
Let foe come on foe, as wave comes on wave,
We'll give them a welcome, we'll give them a grave
Beneath the red heather and thistle so green.

Oh dear to our souls as the blessings of heaven,
Is the freedom we boast, is the land that we live in,
The land of red heather and thistle so green :

For that land and that freedom our fathers have bled,
And we swear by the blood that our fathers have shed,
No foot of a foe shall e'er tread on their grave;
But the thistle shall bloom on the bed of the brave,
The thistle of Scotland, the thistle so green.

This song was inserted in Hogg's "Jacobite Relics." The Shepherd states, in introducing it: "This is a modern song, and the only one that is in the volume, to my knowledge. It had no right to be here, for it is a national, not a Jacobite song; but I insert it out of a whim, to vary the theme a little. It is an excellent song, though professedly an imitation, and when tolerably sung, never misses of having a good effect among a company of Scots people. It has been published as mine in several collections; I wish it were; but I am told that it was written by Mr. Sutherland, land surveyor, a gentleman of whom I know nothing, save that he is the author of some other popular songs." As nothing else has been discovered of Mr. Sutherland, the song is supposed to have been written by Hogg himself.

MY AIN COUNTRIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE sun rises bright in France,

And fair sets he;

But he has tint the blythe blink he had

In my ain countrie.

Oh, gladness comes to many,

But sorrow comes to me,

As I look o'er the wide ocean

To my ain countrie.