S.ENE

SONG OF DEATH.

-A Field of Battle. Time of the day - Even

ing. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following Song.

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 proud field of honor-our swords in our hands, Our king and our country to save

While Victory shines on life's last ebbing sands

O! who wou'd not rest with the brave!

33

IMITATION

OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG.

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;

We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blameThere'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,

And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

THE LASS OF INVERNESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!

And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e.

Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see;
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e!

Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be;

For monie a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

THE ABSENT WARRIOR.

TUNE-"Logan Water."

O LOGAN! Sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride;
And years sinsyne have o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear,
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Again the merry month o' May Has made our hills and valleys gay;

The birds rejoice in leafy bow'rs,

The bees hum round the breathing flow'rs;
Blithe Morning lifts his rosy eye,

And Evening's tears are tears of joy;
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, Amang her nestlings sits the thrush; Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, Or wi' his song her cares beguile; But I, wi' my sweet nurslings here, Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, While Willie's far frae Logan braes.

O, wae upon you, men o' state,
That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make monie a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!

How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happier days,
And Willie, hame to Logan braes

THE WARRIOR'S RETURN.

AIR "The Mill, Mill, O."

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was olawn,
And gentle peace returning,

Wi' monie a sweet babe fatherless,
And monie a widow mourning:

I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia's hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trystin' thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted.

Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.