Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined Around our wreath we'll draw that, And he that would the cord unbind, Shall have it for his gra-vat!

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot,
Your pity scorn to thraw that,
The Devil's elbow be his lot,
Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might,

In spite of brags, an' a' that, The lads that battled for the right, Have won the day, an' a' that!

There's ae bit spot I had forgot,
America they ca' that!
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father's flag to gnaw that:
Now see it fly top-gallant high,

Atlantic winds shall blaw that,
And Yankee loon, beware your croun,
There 's kames in hand to claw that!

For on the land, or on the sea, Where'er the breezes blaw that, The British Flag shall bear the grie, And win the day for a' that!

Song,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND.

1814.

O, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain, And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foe

men,

PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave

spirit

To take for his country the safety of shame; O, then in her triumph remember his merit,

And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,

1 "On the 30th of July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Erskine, and Mr. Duff, 3 Commissioners, along with Mr. (now Sir) Walter Scott, and the writer, visited the Lighthouse; the Commissioners being then on one of their voyages of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. They breakfasted in the Library, when Sir Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon inscribing his name in the Album, added these interesting lines."-STEVENSON'S Account of the Bell-Rock Lighthouse.

He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their glad-

ness,

But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;

And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness, While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His grey head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his Sox;
By his firmness unmoved in success and disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his Master Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his

name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad mea

sure,

The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright trea

sure,

The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd Fill WELLINGTON'S cup till it beam like his glory, Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GREME; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,

And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

Pharos Loquitur.'

FAR in the bosom of the deep,

O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep;

A ruddy gem of changeful light,
Bound on the dusky brow of night,
The seaman bids my lustre hail,

And scorns to strike his timorous sail.

1824. Scott's Diary of the Voyage is now published in the 4th volume of his Life.

1 The late Robert Hamilton, Esq., Advocate, long SheriffDepute of Lanarkshire, and afterwards one of the Principal Clerks of Session in Scotland-died in 1831.

2 Afterwards Lord Kinnedder.

3 The late Adam Duff, Esq. Sheriff-Depute of the county of Edinburgh.

Not thus of old the Norsemen hither came,
Won by the love of danger or of fame;
On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower
Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their power;
For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian land,
Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand;
A race severe-the isle and ocean lords,
Loved for its own delight the strife of swords;
With seornful laugh the mortal pang defied,
And blest their gods that they in battle died.

Such were the sires of Zetland's simple race, And still the eye may faint resemblance trace In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair, The limbs athletic, and the long light hair(Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel sings, Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's Kings ;) But their high deeds to scale these crags confined, Their only warfare is with waves and wind.

Why should I talk of Mousa's castled coast? Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost? May not these bald disjointed lines suffice, Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling diceWhile down the cabin skylight lessening shine The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and wine? Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay Our well-trimm'd vessel urged her nimble way, While to the freshening breeze she lean'd her side, And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide?

Such are the lays that Zetland Isles supply; Drench'd with the drizzly spray and dropping sky, Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I.- -W. SCOTT.

POSTSCRIPTUM.

Kirkwall, Orkney, Aug. 13, 1814. IN respect that your Grace has commission'd a Kraken,

You will please be inform'd that they seldom are taken;
It is January two years, the Zetland folks say,
Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway bay;
He lay in the offing a fortnight or more,
But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore,
Though bold in the seas of the North to assail
The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus and whale.
If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing that is not,
You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. Scott-
(He's not from our clan, though his merits deserve it,
But springs, I'm inform'd, from the Scotts of Scot-
starvet ;)1

He question'd the folks who beheld it with eyes,
But they differ'd confoundedly as to its size.
For instance, the modest and diffident swore
That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, and no more-

1 The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families of the name in Fife and elsewhere, claim no kindred with the great clan of the Border, and their armorial bearings are different.

Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy more high,
Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean and sky-
But all of the hulk had a steady opinion

That 'twas sure a live subject of Neptune's dominion— And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace hardly would wish,

To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish.
Had your order related to night-caps or hose,
Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those.
Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale?
And direct me to send it-by sea or by mail?
The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still
I could get you one fit for the lake at Bowhill.
Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be thrifty,
Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty,
Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no more,
Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were drawn on the
shore !

You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight;
I own that I did not, but easily might-
For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay,
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the spoil,
And flinching (so term it) the blubber to boil;
(Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection
That awakes at the thoughts of this odorous dissection.)
To see this huge marvel full fain would we go,
But Wilson, the wind, and the current, said no.
We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I must stare
When I think that in verse I have once call'd it fair;
"Tis a base little borough, both dirty and mean-
There is nothing to hear, and there's nought to be seen,
Save a church, where, of old times, a prelate harangued.
And a palace that's built by an earl that was hang`d.
But, farewell to Kirkwall-aboard we are going,
The anchor's a-peak, and the breezes are blowing;
Our commodore calls all his band to their places,
And 'tis time to release you-good night to your
Graces!

Verses from Waverley.

1814.

"THE following song, which has been since borrowed by the worshipful author of the famous History of Fryar Bacon,' has been with difficulty deciphered. It seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the bride."

(1.) BRIDAL SONG.

To the tune of “I have been a Fiddler," &c. And did ye not hear of a mirth befell

The morrow after a wedding day, And carrying a bride at home to dwell? And away to Tewin, away, away

IN LUCKIE MACLEARY'S TAVERN.

"IN the middle of this din, the Baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed, that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech thier attention unto a military ariette, which was a particular favourite of the Maréchal Duc de Berwick;' then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a French musquetaire, he immediately commenced,"

Mon cœur volage, dit-elle,

N'est pas pour vous, garçon, Est pour un homme de guerre, Qui a barbe au menton. Lon, Lon, Laridon.

Qui porte chapeau a plume,

Soulier a rouge talon,

Qui joue de la flute,

Aussi de violon.

Lon, Lon, Laridon.

"Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but break in with what he called a d-d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethrowit, the Piper of Cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up-"

It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed,
And o'er the bent of Killiebraid,
And mony a weary cast I made,
To cuittle the moor-fowl's tail.

If up a bonny black-cock should spring,
To whistle him down wi' a slug in his wing,
And strap him on to my lunzie string,
Right seldom would I fail.

Chap. xi.

(5.)-" HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY."

"THE stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and Davie Gellatley's voice singing to the two large deer greyhounds,"

Chap. xii.

(6.)-ST. SWITHIN'S CHAIR.

"THE view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family anecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron told with great enthusiasm. The projecting peak of an impending crag, which rose near it, had acquired the name of St. Swithin's Chair. It was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which Mr. Rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar in King Lear; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet,

Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.

"The sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his poetry so much wanted."

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud.

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damp'd her hair:
Her cheek was pale-but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.

He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair, When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,