While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the

river,

Mac Gregor despite then shall flourish for ever!
Come then, Grigalach, come then Grigalach,
Come then, come then, come then, &c.

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall

career,

O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.

["These verses are adapted to a very wild, yet lively gatheringtune, used by the Mac Gregors. The severe treatment of this clan, their outlawry, and the proscription of their very name, are alluded to in the ballad."-SCOTT.]

THE HILLS O' GALLOWA.'

THOMAS CUNNINGHAM.

Born 1776-Died 1834.

Amang the birks sae blythe and gay,
I met my
Julia hameward gaun;
The linties chauntit on the spray,

The lammies loupit on the lawn;
On ilka howm the sward was mawn,
The braes wi' gowans buskit braw,
An' gloamin's plaid o' gray was thrawn
Out owre the hills o' Gallowa'.

Wi' music wild the woodlands rang,
And fragrance wing'd alang the lea,
As down we sat the flowers amang,
Upon the banks o' stately Dee.
My Julia's arms encircled me,
And saftly slade the hours awa',
Till dawin coost a glimmerin e'e
Upon the hills o' Gallowa'.

It isna owsen, sheep, an' kye,
It isna gowd, it isna gear,
This lifted e'e wad hae, quoth I

The warld's drumlie gloom to cheer.
But gie to me my Julia dear,

Ye powers wha rowe this yirthen ba' And O! sae blythe thro' life I'll steer, Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

Whan gloamin' dauners up the hill,

And our gudeman ca's hame the yowes,
Wi' her I'll trace the mossy rill

That owre the muir meandering rowes;
Or tint amang the scroggy knowes,
My birken pipe I'll sweetly blaw,

And sing the streams, the straths, and howes,
The hills and dales o' Gallowa'.

And when auld Scotland's heathy hills,
Her rural nymphs and joyous swains,
Her flow'ry wilds and wimpling rills,
Awake nae mair my canty strains;
Whare friendship dwells and freedom reigns,

Whare heather blooms and muircocks craw,

O! dig my grave, and hide my banes

Amang the hills o' Gallowa'.

THE BRAES OF BALLAHUN.

THOMAS CUNNINGHAM.

Now smiling summer's balmy breeze
Soft whispering, waves the leafy trees :
The linnet greets the rosy morn,
Sweet in yon fragrant flowery thorn;
The bee hums round the woodbine bower,
Collecting sweets from every flower?
And pure the crystal streamlets run
Amang the braes of Ballahun.

O blissful days, for ever fled,
When wandering wild as fancy led,
I ranged the bushy bosom❜d glen,
The scroggy shaw, the rugged linn,
And mark'd each blooming hawthorn bush
Where nestling sat the speckled thrush;
Or careless roaming wandered on
Amang the braes of Ballahun.

Why starts the tear, why bursts the sigh, When hills and dales rebound with joy? The flowery glen and lilied lea

In vain display their charms to me.

I joyless roam the heathy waste,

To soothe this sad, this troubled breast;
And seek the haunts of men to shun

Amang the braes of Ballahun.

The virgin blush of lovely youth,
The angel smile of artless truth,
This breast illum'd with heavenly joy,
Which lyart time can ne'er destroy:
O Julia dear!-the parting look,
The sad farewell we sorrowing took,
Still haunt me as I stray alone
Amang the Braes of Ballahun.

[' Ballahun,' is a wild woody glen near Blackwood House on the river Nith.]

FAREWELL TO BONNIE TEVIOTDALE.

THOMAS PRINGLE.

Our native land, our native vale,
A long, a last adieu!
Farewell to bonny Teviotdale,

And Cheviot mountains blue!

Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds,
Ye streams renown'd in song!
Farewell, ye braes and blossom'd meads,
Our hearts have loved so long!

Farewell, the blythesome broomy knowes,
Where thyme and harebells grow!
Farewell, the hoary, haunted howes,
O'erhung with birk and sloe!

The mossy cave, and mouldering tower, That skirt our native dell;

The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell!

Home of our love! our father's home
Land of the brave and free!
The sail is flapping on the foam,
That bears us far from thee!

We seek a wild and distant shore,
Beyond the western main:
We leave thee to return no more,
Nor view thy cliffs again!

Our native land, our native vale,
A long, a last adieu !

Farewell to bonnie Teviotdale,

And Scotland's mountains blue!

THE BONNY LASS OF DELORAINE.

JAMES HOGG.

Still must my pipe lie idle by,

And worldly cares my mind annoy? Again its softest notes I'll try,

So dear a theme can never cloy. Last time my mountain harp I strung, 'Twas she inspir'd the simple strain, That lovely flower so sweet and young, The bonny lass of Deloraine.