"Farewell, dear renown," cried the auld lyart veteran; "For Malcolm nae mair will be seen on the field Wi' death warsling dourly, his faes bravely scatterin'; The sword o' a sodger his arm downa wield. But here though he wanders wi' eild heavy laden, And joyless gaes hirplin' down life's briary brae, He ance strade to glory, through bluid bravely wadin', Whar great Abercrombie, his chief, led the way. Illustrious leader! now stalking wi' heroes, Wha bled for our country, our king, and our laws, When freedom unfurls her banner, be near us, And rouse Scottish valour to stand in her cause. By thee, led to victory, the sodger undaunted, In wild transport fir'd at the loud shouts o' war, O'er heaps rush'd to glory, the breach boldly mounted, Though death arm'd wi' terror his courage to scaur. Auld Scotia may lang on the heath wander cheerless, And mourn as she sits by the sad sounding wave, The prime o' her warriors, intrepid, and fearless,— The brave Abercrombie lies cauld in the grave!" OH! WHAT IS THE GAIN OF RESTLESS CARE. And what are the joys which the modish share, The shade with its silence, oh! is it not sweet, Oh! where is the morning seen to rise, * GO WHERE WAR. AN ANSWER TO "MY LOVE IS BREATHING A PRAYER FOR ME." Go where war and thy country calls thee, When the loud wind howls round my dwelling, Take this jewel from off my finger; See 'tis bath'd with a tender tear; "Twill thy fancy induce to linger On the maid whom you call so dear. This song is by Mr. WILLIAM SMYTH of Cambridge, a specimen of whose admirable lyrics we have already given from Mr. THOMSON'S Irish Melodies. In the most trivial of his pieces there is a copious richness of those bold and beautiful strokes, which are characteristic of strong natural genius, and which he has every where softened by the most exalted purity of senti ment. But should some fairer,-happier rival My heart may break ;-but its latest sigh will POOR JACK. Go patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, Though the tempest top-gallant mast smack-smooth And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the wreck, stow the yards, and bouze ev'ry thing And under reef'd foresail we'll scud. To be taken for trifles aback; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, Why, I heard the good chaplain palaver one day And, my timbers! what lingo he'd coil and belay; And many fine things, that prov'd clearly to me, For, says he, Do you mind me, let storms e'er so oft There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack. 4 I said to our Poll (for you see she would cry) Can't you see the world's wide, and there's room for us all, Both for seamen and lubbers ashore, And if to Old Davy I should go, friend Poll, Why, you never will hear of me more. What then? all's a hazard; come, don't be so soft, For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft, D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch And with her brave the world, without offering to flinch, As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends, For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino my friend's, Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft That same little cherub that sits up aloft, MARIAN'S COMPLAINT. SINCE truth has left the shepherd's tongue, How oft he told me I was fair, How oft for Marian cull'd the bow'r, No more his gifts of guile I'll wear, How oft he vow'd a constant flame, THE BROWN JUG. DEAR Tom, this brown jug, that now foams with mild ale, (In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the vale), It chanc'd, as in dog-days he sat at his ease, His body, when long in the ground it had lain, |