BANNOCK-BURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

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

Or to glorious victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward! chains! and slaverie!

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,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppressions 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!
Tryants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do or die!

SONG OF DEATH.

SCENE-A field of battle. Time of the day-Evening -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 field of proud honor-our swords in our hands
Our King and our Country to save-

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not rest with the brave!

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 grey;
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 blame-
There'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 aye the saut tear blin's her e'et

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 bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers:
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.