No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace,

No luxurious tables enervate our race;

Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain,
And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain.

Such is our love, &c.

We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale,
And swift as the roe which the hound doth assail;
As the full moon in autumn our shields do appear;
E'en Minerva would dread to encounter our spear.
Such is our love, &c.

As a storm in the ocean when Boreas blows,
So are we enraged when we rush on our foes;
We sons of the mountains, tremendous as rocks,
Dash the force of our foes with our thundering strokes.
Such is our love, &c.

Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France,
In their numbers fondly boasted till we did advance;
But when our claymores they saw us produce,
Their courage did fail, and they sued for a truce.
Such is our love, &c,

In our realm may the fury of faction long cease,
May our councils be wise, and our commerce increase ;
And in Scotia's cold climate may each of us find

That our friends still prove true, and our beauties prove kind.
Then we'll defend our liberty, our country, and our laws,
And teach our late posterity to fight in freedom's cause;
That they, like their ancestors bold, for honour and applause,
May defy the French, with all their arts, to alter our laws.

BURNS. Air-"Hey tuttie taittie."

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

Now's the day and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour:

See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave ?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa'?

Let him 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 free!

Lay the proud usurpers low,
Tyrants fall in every foe;

Liberty's in every blow;
Let us do or die!

"This noble strain," says Dr. Currie, "was conceived by the poet during a storm among the wilds of Glen Ken, in Galloway." Burns himself says, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, dated Sept. 1793, in which he enclosed it, "I borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace:

A false usurper sinks in every foe,

And liberty returns with every blow.'

A stanza worthy of Homer." In another letter he says: "I do not know whether the old air of 'Hey tuttie taittie' may rank among this number; but well I know that, with Fraser's hautboy, it has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition which I have met with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning.

"So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as he did that day! Amen. "P.S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and begged me to make soft verses for it; but I had no idea of giving myself any trouble upon the subject, till the accidental recollection of that glorious struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of some other struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania."

In answer to this letter, Thomson writes the following: "I believe it is generally allowed that the greatest modesty is the sure attendant of the greatest merit. While you are sending me verses that even Shakspeare might be proud to own, you speak of them as if they were ordinary productions! Your heroic ode is to me the noblest composition of the kind in the Scottish language. I happened to dine yesterday with a party of your friends, to whom I read it. They were all charmed with it, entreated me to find a suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest or grandeur as 'Hey tuttie taittie.' Assuredly your partiality for this tune must arise from association; for I never heard any person-and I have conversed again and again with the greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs-I say I never heard any one speak of it as worthy of notice."

In some versions of this song, the concluding line of each stanza is lengthened to seven feet. In the first stanza the line is, "Or to glorious victory;" in the second, "Edward, chains, and slavery!" in the third, "Traitor, coward, turn and flee!" in the fourth, "Caledonian! on wi' me!" in the fifth, "But they shall be, shall be free!" and in the sixth, "Forward! Let us do or die!" But these elongations mar the music and weaken the poetry.

The old song of "Hey tuttie taittie" has been preserved by Mr. Peter Buchan; the chorus will suffice as a specimen :

Hey tuttie taittie,

Hey talerettie;

Hey, my bonnie Mary,
She's aye roarin' fu'..

THE DYING SOLDIER.

BURNS. Air-"My lodging is on the cold ground."

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies,
Now gay with the bright setting sun!

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties!
Our race of existence is run.

Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go frighten the coward and slave!

Go teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know
No terrors hast thou to the brave.

Thou strik'st the dull peasant, he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name;

Thou strik'st the young hero, a glorious mark,
He falls in the blaze of his fame.

In the field of proud honour, our swords in our hands,
Our king and our country to save;

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,

Oh, who would not die with the brave!

This song, written by Burns to a Highland air called "Oran an oig," is now usually adapted to the English melody of "My lodging is on the cold ground," an air also claimed by the late Thomas Moore as Irish, and for which he wrote the beautiful song, "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms." The original song of "The mad shepherdess," whose lodging was on the cold ground, was sung in Davenant's comedy of "The Rivals," produced in London in 1688. "As this song," says Mr. Chappell, in his valuable collection of " Ancient English Airs," "has been published by Moore in his 'Irish Melodies,' the editor wishes to state it as the opinion of Mr. Bunting, who has devoted his life to the collection of Irish music; of Mr. Wade, who has also made it a particular study; of Mr. Edward Taylor, the Gresham lecturer; of Dr. Crotch, Mr. Ayrton, and many other eminent musical antiquaries, that from internal evidence of the tune itself, it is not Irish, but English; nor indeed has he hitherto met with any difference of opinion amongst musicians upon the subject. About the time that it was printed in 'Moore's Irish Melodies,' it was also published (in Dublin) in 'Clifton's British Melodies.'"

The late Sir Henry R. Bishop often asserted his positive belief that neither the Scotch nor the Irish had any true claim to this fine melody, which he held to be unmistakably English.

DOES HAUGHTY GAUL INVASION THREAT?

BURNS. April 1795.

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?

Then let the loons beware, sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,

And volunteers on shore, sir.

The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
And Criffel sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally.

Oh, let us not, like snarling curs,
In wrangling be divided,
Till slap come in an unco loon,
And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Among ourselves united;
For never but by British hands
Must British wrongs be righted.
The kettle o' the kirk and state,

Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But de'il a foreign tinkler loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

Our fathers' blood the kettle bought,
And who would dare to spoil it?
By Heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that would a tyrant own,

And the wretch, his true-born brother,
Who'd set the mob aboon the throne-

May they be damn'd together!
Who will not sing "God save the king !”
Shall hing as high's the steeple ;

But while we sing "God save the king!"
We'll ne'er forget the people.

This song was written by Burns to the English air of "Push about the jorum." The Scotch melody of "The barrin' of our door" was afterwards found for it.

LAND OF MY FATHERS.

DR. JOHN LEYDEN. The music by R. A. SMITH.

LAND of my fathers! though no mangrove here
O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear,
Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot,
Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit,