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It's round my corri, my lovely corri,
Where rushes thicken and long reeds blow;
Fine were the harvest to any reaper

Who through the marsh and the bog could go.

Ah, that's fine clothing!-a great robe stretching,
A grassy carpet most smooth and green,
Painted and fed by the rain from heaven

In hues the bravest that man has seen"Twixt here and Paris, I do not fancy

A finer raiment can ever be-
May it grow for ever!-and, late and early,
May I be here on the knolls to see!
Around Ruadh-Arisidh what ringlets cluster!
Fair, long, and crested, and closely twined,
This way and that they are lightly waving

At every breath of the mountain wind.
The twisted hemlock, the slanted rye-grass,
The juicy moor-grass, can all be found;
And the close-set groundsel is greenly growing
By the wood where heroes are sleeping sound.

In yonder ruin once dwelt Mac Bhaidi,

"Tis now a desert where winds are shrill; Yet the well-shaped brown ox is feeding by it, Among the stones that bestrew the hill. How fine to see, both in light and gloaming,

The smooth Clach-Fionn, so still and deep,
And the houseless cattle and calves most peaceful,
Grouped on the brow of the lonely steep.

In every nook of the mountain pathway
The garlic-flower may be thickly found-
And out on the sunny slopes around it

Hang berries juicy, and red, and round-
The penny-royal and dandelion,

The downy cannach, together lie

Thickly they grow from the base of the mountain
To the topmost crag of his crest so high.

And not a crag but is clad most richly,

Hither he darts where the waves are boiling--
Out he springs at the glistening flies!
How he leaps in the whirling eddies!
With back blue-black, and fins that shine,
Spangled with silver, and speckled over,
With white tail tipping his frame so fine!
Gladsome and grand is the misty corri,

And there the hunter hath noble cheer;
The powder blazes, the black lead rattles
Into the heart of the dun-brown deer;
And there the hunter's hound so bloody
Around the hunter doth leap and play,
And madly rushing, most fierce and fearless,
Springs at the throat of the stricken prey.

Oh, 'twas gladsome to go a-hunting,

Out in the dew of the sunny morn!
For the great red stag was never wanting,

Nor the fawn, nor the doe with never a horn.
And when rain fell, and the night was coming,
From the open heath we could swiftly fly,
And, finding the shelter of some deep grotto,
Couch at ease till the night went by.

And sweet it was, when the white sun glimmered,
Listening under the crag to stand-
And hear the moor-hen so hoarsely croaking,
And the red-cock murmuring close at hand;
While the little wren blew his tiny trumpet,

And threw his steam off blythe and strong,
While the speckled thrush and the redbreast gaily
Lilted together a pleasant song!

Not a singer but joined the chorus,
Not a bird in the leaves was still.
First the laverock, that famous singer,
Led the music with throat so shrill;
From tall tree branches the blackbird whistled,
And the gray-bird joined with his sweet "coo-
coo;"

For rich and silvern the soft moss clings;
Fine is the moss, most clean and stainless,
Hiding the look of unlovely things;
Down in the hollows beneath the summit,
Where the verdure is growing most rich and Then out of the shelter of every corri

Everywhere was the blythsome chorus,

Till the glen was murmuring through and through.

deep,

The little daisies are looking upward,

And the yellow primroses often peep. Round every well and every fountain

An eyebrow dark of the cress doth cling; And the sorrel sour gathers in clusters

Around the stones whence the waters spring; With a splash, and a plunge, and a mountain

murmur

The gurgling waters from earth up leap,
And pause, and hasten, and whirl in circles,
And rush, and loiter, and whirl, and creep!

Out on the ocean comes the salmon,
Steering with crooked nose he hies,

Came forth the creature whose home is there;
First, proudly stepping, with branching antlers,
The snorting red-deer forsook his lair;
Through the sparkling fen he rushed rejoicing,
Or gently played by his heart's delight—
The hind of the mountain, the sweet brown
princess,

So fine, so dainty, so staid, so slight!

Under the light green branches creeping

The brown doe cropt the leaves unseen,
While the proud buck gravely stared around him,
And stamped his feet on his couch of green;
Smooth and speckled, with soft pink nostrils,
With beauteous head, lay the tiny kid;

All apart in the dewy rushes,

Sleeping unseen in its nest, 'twas hid.

My beauteous corri! my misty corri!

What light feet trod thee in joy and pride. What strong hands gathered thy precious trea

sures,

What great hearts leaped on thy craggy side! Soft and round was the nest they plundered,

Where the brindled bee his honey hath— The speckled bee that flies, softly humming, From flower to flower of the lonely strath.

There thin-skinned, smooth, in clustering bunches,

With sweetest kernels as white as cream, From branches green the sweet juice drawing, The nuts were growing beside the streamAnd the stream went dancing merrily onward, And the ripe, red rowan was on its brim, And gently there, in the wind of morning, The new-leaved sapling waved soft and slim.

And all around the lovely corri

The wild birds sat on their nests so neat, In deep, warm nooks and tufts of heather,

Sheltered by knolls from the wind and sleet; And there from their beds, in the dew of the morning,

Uprose the doe and the stag of ten,

And the tall cliffs gleamed, and the morning reddened,

The Coire Cheathaich-the Misty Glen!

THE LAST ADIEU TO THE HILLS.

Yestreen I stood on Ben Dorain, and paced its dark-gray path;

Was there a hill I did not know-a glen or grassy strath?

Oh! gladly in the times of old I trod that glorious ground,

And the white dawn melted in the sun, and the red-deer cried around.

How finely swept the noble deer across the morning hill,

While fearless played the fawn and doe beside the running rill;

I heard the black and red cock crow, and the bellowing of the deer

I think those are the sweetest sounds that man at dawn may hear.

Oh! wildly, as the bright day gleamed, I climbed the mountain's breast,

And when I to my home returned, the sun was in the west;

"Twas health and strength, 'twas life and joy, to wander freely there,

To drink at the fresh mountain stream, to breathe the mountain air.

And oft I'd shelter for a time within some shieling low,

And gladly sport in woman's smile, and woman's kindness know.

Ah! 'twas not likely one could feel for long a joy so gay!

The hour of parting came full soon-I sighed, and went away.

And now the cankered withering wind has struck my limbs at last;

My teeth are rotten and decayed, my sight is failing fast;

If hither now the chase should come, 'tis little I could do;

Though I were hungering for food, I could not now pursue.

But though my locks are hoar and thin, my beard and whiskers white,

How often have I chased the stag with dogs full swift of flight!

And yet, although I could not join the chase if here it came,

The thought of it is charming still and sets my heart on flame.

Ah! much as I have done of old, how ill could I wend now,

By glen, and strath, and rocky path, up to the mountain's brow!

How ill could I the merry cup quaff deep in social cheer!

How ill could I sing a song in the gloaming of the year!

Those were the merry days of spring, the thoughtless times of youth;

"Tis fortune watches over us, and helps our need, forsooth;

Believing that, though poor enough, contentedly I live,

For George's daughter, every day, my meat and drink doth give.'

Yestreen I wandered in the glen; what thoughts were in my head!

There had I walked with friends of yore--where are those dear ones fled?

I looked and looked; where'er I looked was naught but sheep! sheep! sheep!

A woeful change was in the hill! World, thy deceit was deep!

"George's daughter" was the musket carried by him as a member of the city guard and servant of King George. The value of his "meat and drink" was fivepence or sixpence a day.—ED.

From side to side I turned mine eyes-Alas! my | soul was sore

The mountain bloom, the forest's pride, the old

men were no more.

Nay, not one antlered stag was there, nor doe so soft and slight,

Farewell, ye forests of the heath! hills where the bright day gleams!

Farewell, ye grassy dells! farewell, ye springs and leaping streams!

Farewell, ye mighty solitudes, where once I loved to dwell

No bird to fill the hunter's bag-all, all were fled Scenes of my spring-time and its joys-for ever from sight!

fare you well!

JOHN LAPRAIK.

BORN 1727 - DIED 1807.

JOHN LAPRAIK, author of the song "When I upon thy bosom lean," was born in the year 1727, and died at Muirkirk, where he latterly kept the village post-office, in 1807. In 1788 he published at Kilmarnock a volume of poems, but none of them equalled the one mentioned above. "This song," says Burns, "was the work of a facetious old fellow, John Lapraik, late of Dalfram, near Muirkirk; which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some connection as security for some persons concerned in that villainous bubble the Ayr Bank. He has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting o'er their misfortunes." It will be recollected that Burns, hearing these beautiful lines sung at a "country rocking,' was so much taken with them that he addressed a poetical epistle to Lapraik, which opened up

The poet

a correspondence between them.
says with exquisite delicacy—
"There was ae sang amang the rest,
Aboon them a' it pleased me best,
That some kind husband had addrest
To some sweet wife:
It thrill'd the heart-strings through the breast,
A' to the life.

I've scarce heard aught describe sae weel
What generous manly bosoms feel;
Thought I, Can this be Pope or Steele,
Or Beattie's wark?

They tauld me 'twas an odd kind chiel
About Muirkirk."

The "old Scottish bard" whom Burns so highly complimented, although greatly his senior, outlived him many years, and died at the great age of fourscore years. Lapraik's other productions prove that he had little claims to the title of poet.

MATRIMONIAL HAPPINESS.

When I upon thy bosom lean,
And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,

I glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane, wha ance were twain. A mutual flame inspires us baith,

The tender look, the meltin' kiss: Even years shall ne'er destroy our love, But only give us change o' bliss.

Ha'e I a wish? it's a' for thee!
I ken thy wish is me to please.
Our moments pass sae smooth away,
That numbers on us look and gaze;

Weel pleased they see our happy days, Nor envy's sel' finds aught to blame; And aye, when weary cares arise,

Thy bosom still shall be my hame.

I'll lay me there and tak' my rest:

And if that aught disturb my dear, I'll bid her laugh her cares away,

And beg her not to drop a tear. Ha'e I a joy? it's a' her ain!

United still her heart and mine; They're like the woodbine round the tree,

That's twined till death shall them disjoin.

JANE ELLIOT.

BORN 1727 - DIED 1805.

MISS JANE or JEAN ELLIOT, the authoress | ancient minstrels is so happily imitated, that of the finest of the various versions of "The Flowers of the Forest," was the second daughter of Sir Gilbert Elliot, second baronet of Minto, and was born at Minto House in Teviotdale in the year 1727. During the rebellion of 1745, when her father was forced to conceal himself among Minto Crags from an enraged party of Jacobites, she received and entertained the officers at Minto House, and, by her extreme composure and presence of mind, averted the danger to which he was exposed. Miss Elliot had many admirers, but she never married. From 1782 to 1804 she resided in Brown's Square, Edinburgh, and is said to have been the last lady in that city who, after the era of the fly, kept standing in her hall a private sedan-chair. Miss Elliot stole back, when nearly fourscore, to bonnie Teviotdale, and died either at Minto House, or Mount Teviot the residence of her younger brother Admiral Elliot, March 29th, 1805.

The pathetic dirge for the stalwart sons of Selkirkshire slain at Flodden Field, Miss Elliot's only composition, was written in 1756, and when first published it passed for an old ballad, and long remained anonymous. Burns was among the first to pronounce it a modern production, saying, "This fine ballad is even a more palpable imitation than Hardyknute. The manners are indeed old, but the language is of yesterday;" and Sir Walter Scott, who was among the first to bring it home to Jean Elliot's door, remarked: The manner of the

it required the most positive evidence to convince me that the song was of modern date." Allan Cunningham preferred it to Mrs. Cockburn's version; but both are extremely beautiful, and in singing the latter is generally preferred. "The Forest" was the name given to a district which comprehends the county of Selkirk and a portion of Peeblesshire and Clydesdale, and which was noted for its archers. These were almost to a man slain at the disastrous battle of Flodden, and upon this event the song is founded. Cunningham writes: "The song of Miss Elliot was composed from the impulse of some ancient verses; and if there be such a thing as the transmigration of poetic soul, it has happened here. The most acute antiquary could not, I think, single out, except by chance, the ancient lines which are woven into the song, the simulation is so perfect. The line with which it commences— "I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,' is old, and so is the often recurring line which presses on our hearts the desolation of the Forest. Now, admitting these lines to be old, can we say that the remainder of the song has not in every line, in language, and image, and sentiment, the same antique hue, and spirit, and sound? The whole comes with a cry in our ears as from the survivors of Flodden Field; and when it is sung we owe little to imagination when we associate it with the desolation of the Forest, and hear in it the ancient wail of its maids and matrons."

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've heard the lilting at our yowe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before the dawn o' day:
But now they are moaning in ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At buchts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are
scorning,

The lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae;

Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen, and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are
jeering,

The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray; At fair or at preaching nae wooing, nae fleechingThe Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

foremost,

At e'en, at the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming, | The Flowers of the Forest, that foucht aye the
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dule and wae for the order, sent our lads to the
Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay.

We hear nae mair lilting at our yowe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

JAMES MACLAGGAN.

BORN 1728-DIED 1805.

of military chaplain for twenty-five years, he was presented to the parish of Blair-Athole, where he died in 1805. He published anonymously a collection of Gaelic songs; and during his service with the regiment he composed a number of war lyrics and poems, many of which still remain in manuscript. He was a thorough Gaelic scholar, and recovered, while settled in the Highlands, from the recitation of various persons, large portions of the poetry of Ossian prior to Macpherson's pub

The Rev. JAMES MACLAGGAN was born in the year 1728 at Ballechin, in the parish of Logierait, Perthshire. He was educated at the University of St. Andrews, and after being licensed as a preacher he was appointed to the chapel-of-ease at Amulree (made a parish in 1871), Perthshire, and subsequently to the chaplaincy of the 42d Regiment, his commission bearing date June 15, 1764. He accompanied the regiment to the United States, and was present in several engagements during the war of 1776-82. After discharging the duties | lications.

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