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COME ROWE THE BOAT

WAS written long ago to a boat-song that I heard in the Highlands, sung by the rowers. It is a short cross measure, -one of those to which it is impossible to compose good or flowing verses, but, when sung, is very sweet. It has since been set in modern style by Bishop. See Goulding and D'Almaine's Select Scottish Melodies.

COME rowe the boat, rowe the boat,

Ply to the pibroch's note,

Steer for yon lonely cot

O'er the wild main ;

For there waits my dearie,
Both lonesome and eery,

And sorely she'll weary

To hear our bold strain.

Then rowe for her lover,

And play, boys, to move her,

The tide-stream is over,

And mild blows the gale.

I see her a-roaming

Like swan in the gloaming,

Or angel a-coming

Her Ronald to hail!

The deer of Ben-Aitley

Is comely and stately,

As tall and sedately

She looks o'er the dale

The sea-bird rides sprightly

O'er billows so lightly,

Or boldly and brightly

Floats high on the gale.

But O, my dear Mary,

What heart can compare thee

With aught in the valley,

The mountain, or tide?

All nature looks dreary

When thou art not near me,

But lovely and dearly

When thou'rt by my side.

THE HIGHLANDER'S FAREWELL

Is one of those desperate Jacobite effusions, which, in the delirium of chivalry, I have so often poured out when contemplating the disinterested valour of the clans, and the beastly cruelty of their victors. It is a mercy that I live in a day when the genuine heir of the Stuarts fills their throne, else my head would only be a tenant at will of my shoulders. I have composed more national songs than all the bards of Britain put together. Many of them have never been published; more of them have been, under various names and pretences: but few of them shall ever be by me again.-The song is set by Smith, in the Scottish Minstrel.

O WHERE shall I gae seek my bread,

Or where shall I gae wander,

O where shall I gae hide

my head,

For here I'll bide nae langer?

The seas may rowe, the winds may blow,

And swathe me round in danger,
But Scotland I maun now forego,

And roam a lonely stranger!

The glen that was my father's own,

Maun be by his forsaken;

The house that was my father's home
Is levell'd with the braken.

Oh hon! oh hon! our glory's gone,
Stole by a ruthless reaver-

Our hands are on the broad claymore,
But the might is broke for ever!

And thou, my Prince, my injured Prince, Thy people have disown'd thee

Have hunted and have driven thee hence, With ruined Chiefs around thee.

Though hard beset, when I forget

Thy fate, young, hapless rover, This broken heart shall cease to beat, And all its griefs be over.

Farewell, farewell, dear Caledon,
Land of the Gael no longer!
Strangers have trod thy glory on,

In guile and treachery stronger.

The brave and just sink in the dust,

On ruin's brink they quiverHeaven's pitying eye is closed on thee; Adieu, adieu for ever!

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