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THE DAYS O' LANGSYNE. Whan war had broke in on the peace o' auld men, And frae Chelsea to arms they were summon’d again, Twa vet’rans grown grey, wi' their muskets sair foil'd, Wi' a sigh were relating how hard they had toil'd. The drum it was beating, to fight they incline, But ay they look'd back on the days o' langsyne.
Hech, Davie, man, weel thou remembers the time, When twa brisk young callans, and just in our prime, The prince led us, conquer'd, and shaw'd us the way, And monie a braw chield we turn'd cauld on that day. Still again I wad venture this auld trunk o' mine, Could our gen'ral but lead, or we fight like langsyne.
But garrison duty is a' we can do;
O'ER THE MUIR AMANG THE HEATHER.
Amang the bonnie blooming heather,
There I met a bonnie lassie,
O’er the muir amang the heather,
Keeping a' her ewes thegither.
Oer the muir, &c.
Sae warm and sunnie was the weather,
O'er the muir, fe.
Till echo ran a mile and farther,
O’er the muir, &c.
I cou'dna think on onie ither:
D'er the muir, 8c. *
* We are probably indebted to Burns for this Song, though he was not the author of it. He tells us “ it is the composition of a Jean GLOVER,-a girl who was not only a prostitute, but also a thief, and who, in one or other character, has visited most of the Correction Houses in the West. She was born, I believe, in Kil. marnock. I took the song down from her singing, as she was strolling through the country with a slight-of-hand blackguard."
She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa',
THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.
TUNE~" Captain OʻKean.” The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet runs clear thro’ the vale; The primroses blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale. But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
When the lingering moments are number'd by care? No birds sweetly singing, nor flow'rs gaily springing,
Can sooth the sad bosom of joyless despair.
A king and a father to place on his throne!
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.
But 'tis not my suff’rings, thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn; Your faith prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make it no better return? *
• BURNS does not seem to have intended this for a Jacobitical song when he began to compose it. In a letter to one of his friends, inclosing only the first verse, he says " Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a track of melancholy, joyless moors, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I turned my thoughts to Psalms, and Hymns, and Spiritual Songs, and your favourite air, Captain O’Kean, coming at length in my head, I tried these words to it. I am tolerably pleased with the verses ; but as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the music.” The Gentleman, in reply, declared himself highly delighted with the words, and the manner in which they fitted the tune; but, at the same time, he expressed a wish to have a verse or two more added in the Jacobite style, and that they should be supposed to be “ sung after the fatal field of Culloden by the unfortunate Charles.” This advice the Poet implicitly followed.