SCOTIA'S GLENS

WAS written the same year with the foregoing, and published in several papers the following year; a feeble attempt to contribute my mite for the defence of my country, the only way that it was in my power. It became popular in India. The original name of the air is "Lord Ballenden's delight" -a fine one, but hard to sing-to be found in some of the old collections.

'MANG Scotia's glens and mountains blue,
Where Gallia's lilies never grew,

Where Roman eagles never flew,

Nor Danish lions rallied,

Where skulks the roe in anxious fear,
Where roves the swift an' stately deer,
There live the lads to freedom dear,
By foreign yoke ne'er galled!

There woods grow wild on every hill,
There freemen wander at their will,
And Scotland will be Scotland still,

While hearts so brave defend her!
Fear not, our sovereign Liege, they cry,
We've flourish'd fair beneath thine eye;
For thee we'll fight, for thee we'll die,
Nor aught but life surrender!

Since thou hast watch'd our every need,
And taught our navies wide to spread,
The smallest hair from thy grey head
No foreign foe shall sever;
Thy honour'd age in peace to save,

The sternest enemy we'll brave,

Or stem the fiercest ocean wave,
Nor heart nor hand shall waver!

Though nations join yon tyrant's arm, While Scotia's noble blood runs warm, Our good old man we'll guard from harm, Or fall in heaps around him!

Although the Irish Harp were won,

And England's Roses all o'errun,

'Mong Scotia's glens, with sword and gun, We'll form a bulwark round him!

THE BROOM SAE GREEN

Is my greatest favourite at present,-probably because the air is my own, as well as the verses; for I find I have a particular facility in approving of such things. It is beautifully set by Bishop, in Goulding and D'Almaine's Select Scottish Melodies.

LANG I sat by the broom sae green,
An' O, my heart was eerie!

For

aye this strain was breathed within,
Your laddie will no come near ye!
Lie still, thou wee bit fluttering thing,
What means this weary wavering?
Nae heart returns thy raptured spring,

Your laddie will no come near ye!

On the bough that hung sae near me,
Wi' tender grief my heart was wrung,

For O, the strain was dreary!

The robin's sang it coudnae be

That gart the tear-drap blind my ee;

How ken'd the wee bird on the tree

That my laddie wad no come near me?

The new-wean'd lamb on yonder lea
It bleats out through the braken,
The herried bird upon the tree

Mourns o'er its nest forsaken ;—

If they are wae, how weel may I?
Nae grief like mine aneath the sky,
The lad I lo'e he cares nae by

Though my fond heart is breaking!