The Anglian lion, the terror of France,

Oft prowling, ensanguined the Tweed's silver flood; But taught by the bright Caledonian lance,

He learned to fear in his own native wood.

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free,
Her bright course of glory for ever shall run:
For brave Caledonia immortal must be;

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun:
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose,

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse?

Then ergo she'll match them, and match them always*.

O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YET.
TUNE "Let me in this ae night."

O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet?
Or art thou wakin', I would wit?
For love has bound me hand and fit,
And I would fain be in, jo.

O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo.

Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet,
Nae star blinks through the driving sleet;
Tak' pity on my weary feet,

And shield me frae the rain, jo.

The bitter blast that round me blaws,
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's;
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause
Of a' my grief and pain, jo.

O let me in this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
For pity's sake this ae night,
O rise and let me in, jo.

This singular figure of poetry refers to the famous proposition: of Pythagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle, the aquare of the hypothenuse is always equal to the squares of the two other sides..

HER ANSWER.

O TELL na me o' wind and rain,
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain !
Gae back the gate ye cam' again,
I winna let you in, jo.

I tell you now this ae night,
This ae, ae, ae night;
And ance for a' this ae night,
I winna let you in, jo.

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours,
That round the pathless wand'rer pours,
Is nocht to what poor she endures,
That's trusted faithless man, jo.

The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead,
Now trodden like the vilest weed:

Let simple maid the lesson read,
The weird may be her ain, jo.

The bird that charm'd his summer-day,
Is now the cruel fowler's prey;
Let witless, trusting woman say
How aft her fate's the same, jo,

I will tell you now, &c.

SAW YE MY PHELY.

(Quasi dicat Phillis.)

TUXE" When she cam ben she bobbit."

O SAW ye my dear, my Phely?

saw ye my dear, my Phely?

She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new love,
She winna come hame to her Willy.

What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
What says she, my dearest, my Phely?
She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot,
And for ever disowns thee, her Willy.

had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely!
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair,
Thou's broken the heart o' thy Willy.

IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY. TUNE-" For a'that, and a' that."

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that!
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that;

Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a'that!

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
Gi'e fools their silks, and knaves their wine,.
A man's a man for a' that!

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men, for a' that.

Ye

e see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that ;; Though hundreds worship at his word,, He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that!

A king can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might
Guid faith he mauna fa that !
For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may-
As come it will for a' that-

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree and a' that ;
For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM.

TUNE-"The hopeless Lover.

Now spring has clad the groves in green,.
And strew'd the lea wi' flowers;
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen
Rejoice in fostering showers;
While ilka things in nature join
Their sorrows to forego,

why thus all alone are mine
The weary steps of woe!

The trout within yon wimpling burn
Glides swift, a silver dart,

And safe beneath the shady thorn
Defies the angler's art :

My life was ance that careless stream,.
That wanton trout was I ;

But love, wi' unrelenting beam,
Has scorch'd my fountain dry.

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot,
In yonder cliff that grows,

Which, save the linnet's flight I wot,
Nae ruder visit knows,

Was mine; till love has o'er me pass'd,
And blighted a' my bloom,

And now beneath the withering blast,
My youth and joy consume.

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs,
And climbs the early sky,
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings
In morning's rosy eye;,

1

As little reck'd I sorrow's power,
Until the flowery snara

O' witching love, in luckless hour,
Made me the thrall o' care.

O had my fate been Greenland snows,
Or Afric's burning zone,

Wi' man and nature leagued my foes,
So Peggy ne'er I'd known!

The wretch whase doom is, "hope nae mair!
What tongue his woes can tell!
Within whase bosom, save despair,
Nae kinder spirits dwell.

ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK..

TUNE "Where'll bonnie Ann lie?" or "Loch-Eroch-Side.
O STAY, Sweet warbling woodlark, stay!
Nor quit for me the trembling spray ;
A hapless lover courts thy lay,

Thy soothing, fond complaining.

Again, again that tender part,
That I may catch thy melting art
For surely that wad touch her heart,
Wha kills me wi' disdaining.

Say was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind!
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd,
Sic notes o' woe could wauken.

Thou tells o' never-ending care;
O' speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair!
Or my poor heart is broken!

HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS.

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG.

TUNE-"John Anderson, my jo."

How cruel are the parents,

Who riches only prize,

And to the wealthy booby

Poor woman sacrifice,