Indeed we've been in want,
· And our living's been but scant,
Yet we never were reduc'd to need charity, O.

In this house we first came together, 0,
Where we've long been a father and mother, 0,

And tho' not of stone and lime,

It will serve us all our time,
And I hope we shall never need another, O.
And when we leave this habitation, O,
We'll depart with a good commendation, O;

We'll go hand in hand I wis'

To a better place than this,
And make room for the next generation, O.
Then why should old age so much wound us, O?
There is nothing in't at all to confound us, O;

For how happy now am I,

With my auld wife sitting by,
And our bairns and our oyes all around us, 0. *

* This Auld Man is a philosopher of the first class. It may be questioned if the Reverend Author, the late Mr. SKINNER, ever delivered, from the pulpit, a lecture better calculated to recommend the virtue of contentment, than the natural and simple sentiments which he has put into the mouth of this worthy sage. How finely must these sentiments vibrate on the minds of those, who, like the oracle that utters them, when they have reached the evening of life, can look back on the past with satisfaction, and forward to the future with serenity and hope! The following extract from a letter to Burns, will show to whom the grati. tude of the country is dne for the most of Mr. SKINNER's Songs.

" While I was young,” says he, “ I dabbled a good deal in these things; but, on getting the black gown, I gave it pretty much over, till my daughters grew up, who, being all good singers, plagued me for words to some of their favourite tunes, and so extorted these effusions, which have made a public appearance beyond my expectations, and contrary to my intentions.


TUNE_" Robin Adair.”
Had I a cave on some wild distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;

There would I weep my woes,
There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare
All thy fond plighted vows-fleeting as air!

To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there. *

Now simmer decks the fields wi' flow'rs,

The woods wi' leaves sae green;
And little birds around their bow'rs,

In harmony convene:
The cuckoo fies frae tree to tree,

Whilst saft the zephyrs blaw;

* These beautiful verses, by Burns, were written, as he informs us, with a reference to “ an unfortunate part in the story" of his friend and correspondent, Mr. CUNNINGHAM. The nature of the circumstance he has not specified; but, from the complexion of the verses, it apears to have been a disappointment in a love affair. Mr. C. was a nephew of the celebrated historian, Dr. ROBERTSON of Edinburgh.

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TUNE_" Erin go Bragh.
From the sea-beaten coast of Scotia I wander,

In quest of a home through Columbia I stray;
Ah! broad is the deep that now parts me asunder

From my straw-covered cot, on the banks of the Tay! Oft heaves the fond sigh, when I think on the hours That I spent in my childhood among the broom bow'rs, In weaving fresh garlands of wild-blooming flow’rs,

On the green shady banks of the smooth-winding Tay. Wild are the glens that surround the dear dwelling,

My own native home, when kind fortune did smile Securely within have I heard the storms railing

Along the hoar brow of the heath cover'd hill. From my grief-swoll'n eyes the tear downward gushes, When I think on the time I stray'd through the bushes, Enraptur'd with Mary, when morning's mild blushes

Expanded the flowers on the green banks of Tay. At eve, when the sun steals behind yon blue mountain,

Tinging the clouds with his bright golden rays, I wander alone by the green shaded fountain,

Where memory reminds me of once happy days. No more on those shores, where sea birds are screaming, Nor in the deep glen, where the sun's scarcely gleaming, Will I meet with my Mary, when the night clouds are

skimming Above the green banks of the clear winding Tay.

TUNE_" Hey tuitie taitie,” or “ Lewie Gordon."

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victory!
Now's the day and now's the hour;
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's

Edward! chains, and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?-
· Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha, for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword will strongly draw?
Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?-
Caledonian, on wi' me!

By Oppression's woes and pains !
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be-shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrant's fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward ! let us do, or die ! * This noble ode, unequalled for the independence of the sen. timents, and the heroic spirit which it breathes, was composed by BURNS “ during a storm among the wilds of Glen-Ken, in Galloway,” when on an excursion through that part of the country. The following particulars relative to the journey are not only interesting, but highly characteristic of the Bard, and, as they may not be generally known, they are here given from a letter written by the Gentleman who accompanied him.

“ We left Kenmore, and went to Gatehouse. I took him the moor-road, where savage and desolate regions extended wide around. The sky was sympathetic with the wretchedness of the soil; it became lowering and dark. The hollow winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the thunder rolled. The poet enjoyed the awful scene-he spoke not a word, but semed rapt in meditation. In a little while the rain began to fall; it poured in floods upon us. For three hours did the wild elements rumble their belly full upon our defenceless heads. Oh! oh! 'twas foul. We got utterly wet; and to revenge ourselves, Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our getting utterly drunk.

“ From Gatehouse, we went next day to Kirkcudbright, through a fine country. But here I must tell you that Burns had got a pair of jemmy boots for the journey, which had been thoroughly wet, and which had been dried in such a manner that it was not possible to get them on again. The brawny poet tried force, and tore them to shreds. A whiffling vexation of this sort is more trying to the temper than a serious calamity. We were going to St. Mary's Isle, the seat of the Earl of SeLÁIRK, and the forlorn Burns was discomfited at the thought of his ruined boots. A sick stomach, and a head-ache, lent their aid, and the man of verse was

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