I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now
To clasp to my bosom at even,

O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow,
An' pray for a blessing from heaven

An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face
In the morning that met my eye,

Where are they now,

where are they now?

In the cauld, cauld grave they lie.

There's naebody kens, there's naebody kens,

An' O may they never prove,

That sharpest degree o' agony

For the child o' their earthly love

To see a flower in its vernal hour

By slow degrees decay,

Then calmly aneath the hand o' death
Breathe its sweet soul away.

O dinna break, my poor auld heart,

Nor at thy loss repine,

For the unseen hand that threw the dart

Was sent frae her Father and thine;

Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn,

Even till my latest day,

For though my darling can never return,

I can follow the sooner away.

THE FORTY-SECOND'S WELCOME

TO SCOTLAND

WAS written, at the suggestion of Mr George Thomson, on the return of that gallant regiment from Waterloo, and harmonized beautifully by him to the old air bearing the name of the regiment. It is to be found, I think, in Mr Thomson's first volume, small edition.

OLD Scotia! wake thy mountain strain,

In all its wildest splendours,

And welcome back the lads again,

Your honour's dear defenders.

Be every harp and viol strung,

Till all the woodlands quaver;

Of many a band your bards have sung,
But never hail'd a braver.

Raise high the pibroch, Donald Bane,
We're all in key to cheer it;
And let it be a martial strain,

That warriors bold may hear it.

Ye lovely maids, pitch high your notes
As virgin voice can sound them,
Sing of your brave, your noble Scots,
For glory blazes round them.

Small is the remnant you will see,

Lamented be the others,

But such a stem of such a tree

Take to your arms like brothers.

Then raise the pibroch, Donald Bane,

Strike all the glen with wonder;

Let the chanter yell, and the drone-notes swell,
Till music speaks in thunder.

What storm can rend your mountain-rock,
What wave your headlands shiver?

Long have they stood the tempest's shock,
Thou know'st they will for ever.

Sooner your eye those cliffs shall view

Split by the wind and weather,

Than foeman's eye the bonnet blue

Behind the nodding feather.

O raise the pibroch, Donald Bane!

Our caps to the sky we'll send them. Scotland, thy honours who can stain,

Thy laurels who dare rend them!