It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady;

And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water wraith* was shrieking;
And in the scowl of Heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.—
'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
When oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather'd o'er her.-

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was chang'd to wailing.-

For sore dismay'd, thro' storm and shade,
His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,
And one was round her lover.

*The evil spirit of the waters.

'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief, 'Across this stormy water,.

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!-oh, my daughter!'-

'Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing :

The waters wild went o'er his child

And he was left lamenting. '

WHA'LL BE KING BUT CHARLIE.
By Sir Walter Scott.

THERE'S news from Moidart cam' yestreen,
Will soon gar mony ferlie;
For ships o' war hae just come in,
An' landed Royal Charlie.

Come thro' the heather, around him gather,
Ye're a' the welcomer early;
Around him cling wi' a' your kin,

For wha'll be king but Charlie.

Come thro' the heather, around him gather,
Come Ronald, come Donald, come a' the
An' crown your rightfu' lawfu' King; [gither,
For wha'll be King but Charlie.

The highland clans wi' sword in hand,
Frae John o' Groats to Airley,
Hae to a man declar'd to stand,
Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie.

Come thro' the heather, &c.

The lawlands a' baith great an' sma',
Wi mony a lord an' laird, hae
Declar'd for Scotia's King an' law,
An' speir ye wha' but Charlie.
Come thro' the heather, &c.

There's ne'er a lass in a' the land,
But vows baith late an' early,

To man she'll ne'er gie heart or hand,
Wha wadna fecht for Charlie.

Come thro' the heather, &c.

Then here's a health to Charlie's cause,
An' be't complete an' early;

His very name our heart's blood warms-
To arms for Royal Charlie.

Come thro' the heather, &c.

A SCOT'S LUVE SANG.-By the Ettrick Shepherd.

COULD this ill warld hae been contriv'd
To stand without mischievous woman,
How peacefu' bodies wad hae liv'd,

Releas'd frae a' the ills sae common !
But since it is the waefu' case

That man maun hae this teazing mony, Why see a sweet bewitching face?

-O, had they not been made so bonny!

I might hae wandered dale and wood,
Brisk as the breeze that whistles o'er me,
As careless as the roe-dur's brood,

As happy as the lands before me;
I might hae screw'd my tunefu' pegs,
And caroll'd mountain streams so gaily,
Had we but wantit a' the Megs

Wi' glossy e'en sae dark an' wily.

I saw the danger, fear'd the dart,
The smiles, the air, an' a' sae taking,

Yet open laid my wareless heart,
An' gat the wound that keeps me waking,
My harp waves on the willow green;

O' wild witch-notes it has nae ony,
Sin' e'er I saw that pawky queen,

Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonny!

THE SCOTCHMAN'S WALLET.

HAVE not you seen the Scotchman's wallet, Hanging over his shoulders?

Shoulders, shoulders,

A hanging over his shoulders.

What has the Scotchman got in his wallet,
Hanging over his shoulders?

Shoulders, shoulders,

A hanging over his shoulders.

Beef and pudding, cabbage and bacon,
Hanging over his shoulders;

Shoulders, shoulders.

A hanging over his shoulders.

Come, let us buy the Scotchman's wallet,
For four pence, half penny farthing;

Farthing, farthing,

For four pence, half penny farthing.

LIGHT AS THISTLE DOWN.

LIGHT as thistle down moving, which floats on the air,
Sweet gratitude's debt to this cottage I bear;
Of Autumn's rich store I bring home my part,
The weight on my head, but gay joy in my heart.

CONJUGAL COMFORT.

'DEAR John, prithee tell me, cried Ruth,
To Gubbins, her husband, one day,
'Dost not think, in good sooth,

I should swear but the truth,

Did I swear what I'm going to say? That wedlock's a state,

In good humour, that fate

Contriv'd to bless woman and man,
And that Giles here's an ass,
Who such fortune let's pass?-

All should marry as soon as they can.'

'Why Goody,' quoth Gubbins, you know My thoughts of the thing 'fore to-day; Nor, as I shall show,

Need one many miles go,

To prove what I'm going to say. Did wives ever scold,

Were they ugly or old,

A spouse were a miserable man; But smooth is their tongue,

They're all comely and young

Giles, get married as soon as you can.

'If one's children one wish'd in their graves, Still plaguing one, day after day;

The girls fashion's slaves,

The boys puppies and knaves,

One then might have something to say:

But brats are no evil,

They ne'er play the devil;

Nor have wives from their duty e'er ran;

Then since, my friend Giles,

Wedlock greets you with smiles,

Get married as soon as you can.'