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Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, Fee him, father, see him;

Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she, Fee him, father, fee him;

For he is a gallant lad,

And a weel.doin';

And a' the wark about the house,

Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' she,
Wi' me when I see him.

What will I do wi' him, quo' he,
What will I do wi' him?
He's ne'er a sark upon his back,
And I ha'e nane to gi'e him.
I ha'e twa sarks into my kist,

And ane o' them I'll gi'e him;
And for a merk o' mair fee

Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she,
Dinna stand wi' him.

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she,
Weel do I lo'e him ;

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she,
Weel do I lo'e him.

O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she,

Fee him, father, see him;

He'll haud the pleugh, thrash in the barn,

And crack wi' me at e'en, quo' she,

And crack wi' me at e'en.

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN.

THIS highly humorous and popular song is ascribed to MISS FERRIER, the accomplished authoress of "Destiny," "Marriage," and "Inheritance,"-three novels of distinguished merit.

THE Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great;
His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the state:
He wanted a wife his braw house to keep;
But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek

Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell.
At his table-head he thought she'd look well;
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
A pennyless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd, as guid as when new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;
He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat--
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?
He took the grey mare, and rade cannilie-
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
"Gae tell mistress Jean to come speedily ben:
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."
Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine;
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.
And when she cam' be, he boued fu' low;
And what was his errand he soon let her know.
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, Na,
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.
Dumfounder'd he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannilie ;

And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen, "She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

O ye are the bonniest maiden,

The flower o' the west kintrie ;
Will ye gang to the hielands, Lizzy Lindsay,
My pride and my darling to be?
To gang to the Highlands wi' you, sir,
I dinna ken how that may be;

For I ken nae the land that ye live in,
Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'.

Lizzy, lass, ye maun ken little,
If sae be ye dinna ken me;
My name is Lord Ronald MacDonald,
A chieftain o' high degree.

I've goud and I've gear, Lizzy Lindsay,
And a heart that lo'es only thee,
They a' shall be thine, Lizzy Lindsay,
Gin ye my loved darling will be.

She has kilted her coats o' green satin,
She has kilted them up to the knee,
And she's aff and awa' wi' Lord Ronald,
His bride and his darling to be.

SCOTLAND YET.

WRITTEN by the Rev. H. S. RIDDEL Set to music by Peter MacLeod.

GAE bring my gude auld harp ance mair,

Gae bring it firm and fast-
For I maun sing anither sang,

Ere a' my glee be past.

And trow ye as I sing, my lads,

The burden o't shall be,

Auld Scotland's howes, and Scotland's knowes
And Scotland's hills for me!
I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.

The heath waves wild upon her hills,
And, foaming frae the fells,

Her fountains sing o' freedom still,.
As they dance down the dells;
And weel I lo'e the land, my lads,
That's girded by the sea;

Then Scotland's dales, and Scotland's vales,
And Scotland's hills for me!

I'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,

Wi' a' the honours three.

Her thistle waves upon the fields
Where Wallace bore his blade,

That gave her foemen's dearest bluid
To dye her auld grey plaid;

And looking to the lift, my lads,
He sang this doughty glee,

Auld Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me!
Then drink a cup to Scotland yet,

Wi' a' the honours three.

They tell o' lands wi' brighter skies,

Where freedom's voice ne'er rang-
Gi'e me the hills where Ossian dwelt,
And Coila's Minstrel sang;

For I've nae skill o' lands, my lads,
That ken na to be free.

Then Scotland's right, and Scotland's might,
And Scotland's hills for me!
We'll drink a cup to Scotland yet,
Wi' a' the honours three.

LIZZY LINDSAY.

THIS is a new version of a very old ballad It has been recently introduced by the Misses Cumming, and become a favourite with the public.

WILL ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay,
Will ye gang to the Highlands wi' me?
Will ye gang wi' me, Lizzy Lindsay,
My bride and my darling to be:

O WHY LEFT I MY HAME

THIS is one of the best songs which has been in modern times added to the National Lyrics of Scotland. The words are from the pen of R. GILFILLAN, a poet of no mean celebrity; and the air is by P. MCLEOD, Esq. of Edinburgh It is supposed to be sung by an emigrant in the East Indies.

O WHY left I my hame, why did I cross the deep,
O why left I the land where my forefathers sleep!
I sigh for Scotia's shore, and I gaze across the sea,
But I canna get a blink o' my ain kintrie.

The palm-tree waveth high, and fair the myrtle springs,
And to the Indian maid the bulbul sweetly sings;
But I dinna see the broom with its tassels on the lea,
Nor hear the linties' sang o' my ain kintrie.

O here nae sabbath bel awakes the sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard amang the yellow corn;
For the tyrant's voice is heard and the wail o' slaverie,
But the sun of freedom shines in my ain kintrie.

There's a hope for every wo, and a balm for every pain,
But the first days of our heart come ne'er back again;
There's a track upon the deep, and a path across the sea,
But the weary ne'er return to their ain kintrie.

JEAN LINN.

THIS admirable ballad is the production of W. WILSON, Esq., of Poughkeepsie. It was published many years ago in an Edinburgh literary publication, and was very highly appreciated as an excellent imitation of the old ballad style.

O HAUD na your noddle sae hie my doo,
O haud na your noddle sae hie;

The time that has been, may be yet again seen,
Sae look na sae lightly on me, my doo.

O geck na at hame, hoddin gray Jean Linn,
O geck na at hame, hoddin gray ;

Your gutcher and nine, wad hae thocht themselves fine,
In siccan attire, bonny May.

Ye mind when we won in whin glen, Jean Linn?
Ye mind when we won in whin glen?

Your daddy, douse carle, was cottar to mine,

And our herd was your bonny sell, then, Jean Linn.

O then you were a' thing to me, Jean Linn,
O then you were a' thing to me;
An' the hours scour'd by, like birds thro' the sky,
When tenting the owsen wi' thee, Jean Linn.
I twin'd you a bower by the burn, Jean Linn,
I twin'd you a bower by the burn;

But dreamt na the hour, as we sat in the bow'r,
That fortune wad tak sic a turn, Jean Linn.
You busk noo in satins fu' braw, Jean Linn,
You busk noo in satins fu' braw;

Your daddie's a laird, mine's in the kirk yard,
And I'm your puir ploughman, Jock Law, Jean Linn.

THE MITHERLESS BAIRN.

THIS is the product of a true son of genius-WILLIAN THOM, a poor weaver, in Inverury, a small village in the north of Scotland.

WHEN a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their hame,
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly forfairn?
"Tis the puir dowie laddie-the mitherless bairn!
The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane bed,
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the airn,
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn!
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark hair!
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' stern,
That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn!

The sister wha sang o'er his saftly rock'd bed,
Now rests in the mools whare their mammie is laid;
While the father toils sair his wee bannock to earn,
Ap' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn.

Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his birth. Still watches his lone lorn wand'rings on earth, Recording in heaven the blessings they earn, Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn'

Oh! speak him na harshly-he trembles the while, He bends to your bidding, and blesses your smile :In the dark hour o' anguish, the heartless shall learn, That God deals the blow for the mitherless bairn'

LUCY'S FLITTIN'.

IT is of WILLIAM LAIDLAW, the author of this song, and the valued friend and steward of Sir W. Scott, that the following touching anecdote is related. Scott, on his return from Naples during his last illness, recognised few or none of his friends or relatives, and lay apparently insensible; but seeing Laidlaw near him, at his bed-side, his eyes brightened up as he said-"Is that you, Willie? I ken I'm hame noo." It is strange that he who wrote so well should have written so little-this is the only song the author has written.

"Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was fa'in', And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy row'd up her wee kist wi' her a' in't,

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And left her auld maister and neebours sae dear:
For Lucy had served i' the glen a' the simmer;
She cam there afore the flower bloom'd on the pea
An orphan was she, and they had been gude till her-
Oh, that was the thing brocht the tear to her e'e.

She gaed by the stable where Jamie was stannin';
Richt sair was his kind heart, the flittin' to see:
Fare ye weel, Lucy!' quo Jamie, and ran in ;
The gatherin' tears trickled fast frae his e'e.
As down the burn-side she gaed slow wi' her flittin',
Fare ye weel, Lucy!' was ilka bird's sang;
She heard the craw sayin't, high on the tree sittin',
And Robin was chirpin't the brown leaves amang
'O, what is't that pits my puir heart in a flutter?
And what gars the tears come sae fast to my e'e!
If I wasna ettled to be ony better,

Then what gars me wish ony better to be?
I'm just like a lammie that loses its mither;
Nae mither or friend the puir lammie can see;
I fear I hae tint my puir heart a'thegither,
Nae wonder the tear fa's sae fast frae my e'e.

Wi' the rest o' my claes I hae row'd up the ribbon,
The bonny blue ribbon that Jamie gae me;
Yestreen, when he gae me't, and saw I was sabbin',
I'll never forget the wae blink o' his e'e.
Though now he said naething but Fare ye weel, Lucy!'
It made me I neither could speak, hear, nor see:
He could nae say mair but just, 'Fare ye weel, Lucy!'
Yet that I will mind till the day that I dee.

The lamb likes the gowan wi' dew when its droukit;

The hare likes the brake and the braird on the lea; But Lucy likes Jamie ;-she turn'd and she lookit,

She thocht the dear place she wad never mair see. Ah, weel may young Jamie gang dowie and cheerless! And weel may he greet on the bank o' the burn! For bonnie sweet Lucy, sae gentle and peerless, Lies cauld in her grave, and will never return!

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There are tears in her eyes, that are dim with age,
And she looketh in vain on the holy page;
But she canna see aught but an old oak chair,
That vacant and lonely is standing there.

Long ago, when her bosom was swelling wi' pride,
The lonely auld wife was a gay young bride;
And the rose on her cheek wore its richest bloom
When she gave her hand to the joyous groom.
Faded and worn is her beauty now,
Gray are the hairs on her wrinkled brow;
Silent she sits by the auld hearth stane-
Sad are her thoughts-she is there alane!

Her gudeman is gone to his dreamless rest,
And the lonely auld wife hath a troubled breast;
Yet not for the world would she banish away
The chair he hath sat in for many a day.

She speaketh not, save with a trembling breath,
But hopeth, and waiteth, and prayeth for death;
For joyless and dark are the days o' her life,
When the gudeman is gone frae the lonely auld wife.

MY AIN FIRESIDE.

THIS is another of the admirable duets introduced by the MISSES CUMMING, and is a very great favourite with the public. The words are a modern version of a song written by Hamilton, the friend of Allan Ramsay; the music is arranged by the Misses Cumming,

OH, I hae seen great anes, and sat in great ha's,
Mang lords and mang leddies a' cover'd wi' braws;
But a sight sae delightful I trow I ne'er spied,
As the bonnie blythe blink o' my ain fireside;
My ain fireside, my ain fires

Oh, sweet is the blink o' ane's ain fireside

Ance mair, Heaven be praised, round my ain heartsome
Wi' the friends o' my youth I cordially mingle,
Nae forms to compel me to seem wae or glad,

(ingle,

I may laugh when I'm merry, and sigh when I'm sad
Nae falsehood to dread, nae malice to fear,
But truth to delight me, and friendship to cheer;
O' a' roads to pleasure that ever were tried,
There's nane half so sweet as ane's ain fireside.

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THE

SONGS AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS

OF

BARRY CORNWALL.

THE SEA.

THE sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!
Without a mark, without a bound,

It runneth the earth's wide regions round;

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; Or like a cradled creature lies.

I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea!

I am where I would ever be,

With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go:

If a storm should come, and awake the deep,
What matter? I shall ride and sleep.

I love, oh! how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon,
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below,
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more,
And backward flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest;
And a mother she was, and is to me;
For I was born on the open sea!

The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born;

And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold;
And never was heard such an outery wild
As welcomed to life the ocean-child!

I've lived since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers a sailor's life,

With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought, nor sighed for change;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild unbounded sea!

INDIAN LOVE.

TELL me not that thou dost love me,
Though it thrill me with delight:
Thou art like the stars, above me;
I, the lowly earth at night.
Hast thou (thou from kings descended)
Loved the Indian cottage-born;
And shall she, whom Love befriended,
Darken all thy hopeful morn?
Go; and, for thy father's glory,

Wed the blood that's pure and free:
Tis enough to gild my story
That I once was loved by thee!

KING DEATH.

KING Death was a rare old fellow !
He sat where no sun could shine;
And he lifted his hand so yellow,
And poured out his coal-black wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine

There came to him many a Maiden,

Whose eyes had forgot to shine; And Widows, with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his sleepy wine.

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine! The Scholar left all his learning; The Poet his fancied woes; And the Beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose.

Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!

All came to the royal old fellow,
Who laugh'd till his eyes dropp'd brine,
As he gave them his hand so yellow,
And pledged them in Death's black wine.
Hurrah! hurrah!

Hurrah! for the coal black-wine!

THE COMMON LOT.

MOURN not thy daughter fading!

It is the common lot,

That those we love should come and go, And leave us in this world of wo:

So, murmur not!

Her life was short, but fair,

Unsullied by a blot;

And now she sinks to dreamless rest

(A dove, who makes the earth her nest); So, murmur not!

No pangs, nor passionate grief,

Nor anger raging hot,

No ills shall ever harm her more;
She goes unto the silent shore,
Where pain is not.

Weep'st thou that none should mourn

For thee, and thy sad lot? Peace, peace! and know that few e'er grieve When Death, the tyrant, doth unweave Life's little knot.

E'en thou scarce wept must fade!

It is the common lot,

To link our hearts to things that fly-
To love without return-and die,

And be forgot!

THE HOME OF THE ABSENTEE.

THE weed mourns on the castle wall,
The grass lies on the chamber-floor,
And on the hearth, and in the hall,

Where merry music danced of yore!
And the blood-red wine no longer

Runs (how it used to run!)
And the shadows within, grown stronger,
Look black on the mid-day sun!

All is gone; save a Voice

That never did yet rejoice:

'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;

And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown.

The Gardens feed no fruits nor flowers,

But childless seem, and in decay;
The traitor clock forsakes the hours,
And points to times-oh, far away!
And the steed no longer neigheth,
Nor paws the startled ground;
And the dun hound no longer bayeth;
But death is in all around!
All is gone; save a Voice
That never did yet rejoice:

'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;

And it biddeth us love the thing that's flown

The Lord of all the lone domain,

An undeserving master flies,

And leaves a land where he might reign,
For alien hearts and stranger skies:

And the peasant disdains the story,

He loved to recount of yore;

And the Name, that was once a glory,
Is heard in the land no more!

All is gone; save a Voice

That never did yet rejoice:

'Tis sweet and low; 'tis sad and lone;

And it biddeth us love the thing that's flouTM,

PAST TIMES.

OLD Acquaintance, shall the nights
You and I once talked together,
Be forgot like common things-
Like some dreary night that brings
Naught, save foul weather?

We were young, when you and I

Talked of golden things together-
Of love and rhyme, of books and men:
Ah! our hearts were buoyant then
As the wild-goose feather!
Twenty years have fled, we know,

Bringing care and changing weather;
But hath the heart no backward flights,
That we again may see those nights,
And laugh together?

Jove's eagle, soaring to the sun,

Renews the past year's mouldering feather: Ah, why not you and I, then, soar From age to youth-and dream once more Long nights together?

TO MY LYRE.

SLEEP-sleep, my Lyre!

Untouched-unsought-unstrung!

No one now will e'er inquire

If poet to thee ever sung;

Nor if his spirit clung

To thy witching wire!-
Bid thy soul of music sleep,
As winds lie on the charmed deep,
When the mistress Moon doth chide
The tempest or the murmuring tide!
"Tis well to be a thing forgot!
Oblivion is a happy lot!

"Tis well that neither Love nor Wo,
Nor sad sweet thoughts of "long ago,"
Should 'waken again thy self-consuming fire!
Therefore, therefore, sleep my Lyre.

A SERENADE.

AWAKE!-The starry midnight Hour
Hangs charmed, and pauseth in its flight:
In its own sweetness sleeps the flower;
And the doves lie hushed in deep delight!
Awake! Awake!

Look forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake!

Awake! Soft dews will soon arise

From daisied mead and thorny brake; Then, Sweet, uncloud those eastern eyes, And like the tender morning break! Awake! Awake!

Dawn forth, my love, for Love's sweet sake! Awake!-Within the musk-rose bower

I watch, pale flower of love, for thee:
Ah, come and show the starry Hour
What wealth of love thou hid'st from me!
Awake! Awake!

Show all thy love, for Love's sweet sake!
Awake!-Ne'er heed, though listening Night
Steal music from thy silver voice;
Uncloud thy beauty, rare and bright,
And bid the world and me rejoice!
Awake! Awake!

She comes-at last for Love's sweet sake!

THE ONSET.-A BATTLE SONG. SOUND an alarum! The foe is come.

I hear the tramp-the neigh-the hum, The cry, and the blow of his daring drumHuzzah!

Sound! The blast of our trumpet blown
Shall carry dismay into hearts of stone,
What! shall we shake at a foe unknown'
Huzzah!-fuzzuk!

Have we not sinews as strong as they?
Have we not hearts that ne'er gave way
Have we not GOD on our side to Pay?

Huzzuk!

Look! They are staggered on yon black heata;
Steady awhile, and hold your breath!
Now is your time, men-down like death!
Huzzah!-Huzzah!

Stand by each other and front your foes!
Fight, while a drop of the red blood flows!
Fight, as ye fought for the old red rose!
Huzzah!
Sound! Bid your terrible trumpets bray!
Blow, till their brazen throats give way!
Sound to the battle! Sound, I say!
Huzzah!-Huzza

THE SEA-KING.

COME sing, come sing, of the great Sea-Long,
And the fame that now hangs o'er him,
Who once did sweep o'er the vanquish'd deep,
And drove the world before him!
His deck was a throne, on the ocean lone,
And the sea was his park of pleasure,
Where he scattered in fear the human deer,
And rested-when he had leisure!

Come, shout and sing

Of the great Sea-King,
And ride in the track he rose /

He sits at the head

Of the mighty dead,

On the red right-hand of Odis!

He sprang, from birth, like a God on earth,
And soared on his victor pinions,
And he traversed the sea, as the eagles flee,
When they look on their blue dominions
His whole earn life was a conquering strife,
And he lived till his beard grew hoary,
And he died at last, by his blood-red mast,
And now--he is lost in glory!

So, shout and sing, &c.

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