2 Caird signifies Tinker.

3 Mr. D. Thomson, of Galashiels, produced a parody on this song at an annual dinner of the manufacturers there, which Sir Walter Scott usually attended; and the Poet was

Sheriff of Selkirkshire, and author-suspect of “Rob Roy," in the chorus,

"Think ye, does the Shirra ken Rob M'Gregor's come again?"

I glance like the wildfire through country and town;
I'm seen on the causeway-I'm seen on the down;
The lightning that flashes so bright and so free,
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me.

Here little, and hereafter bliss,

Is best from age to age.

ring?

What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye little cutty

quean, O?

I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger,

I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' mine, O.

Good even, good fair moon, good even to thee;
I prithee, dear moon, now show to me

The form and the features, the speech and degree,
Of the man that true lover of mine shall be.

It is the bonny butcher lad,

That wears the sleeves of blue, He sells the flesh on Saturday, On Friday that he slew.

There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald Wood,
There 's harness glancing sheen;
There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae,
And she sings loud between.

Up in the air,

On my bonnie grey mare,

And I see, and I see, and I see her yet.

In the bonnie cells of Bedlam,
Ere I was ane and twenty,
I had hempen bracelets strong,
And merry whips, ding-dong,
And prayer and fasting plenty.

My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard
Sae far ayont the sea,
And it is but my blithsome ghaist

That's speaking now to thee.

I'm Madge of the country, I'm Madge of the town,
And I'm Madge of the lad I am blithest to own-
The Lady of Beever in diamonds may shine,
But has not a heart half so lightsome as mine.

I am Queen of the Wake, and I'm Lady of May,
And I lead the blithe ring round the May-pole to-
day;

The wild-fire that flashes so fair and so free
Was never so bright, or so bonnie as me.

He that is down need fear no fall,
He that is low no pride;

He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.

Fulness to such a burthen is

That go on pilgrimage;

Our work is over-over now,

The goodman wipes his weary brow, The last long wain wends slow away, And we are free to sport and play.

The night comes on when sets the sun,
And labour ends when day is done.
When Autumn's gone, and Winter 's come,
We hold our jovial harvest-home.

"The attendant on the hospital arranged her in her bed as she desired, with her face to the wall, and her back to the light. So soon as she was quiet in this new position, she began again to sing in the same low and modulated strains, as if she was recovering the state of abstraction which the interruption of her visitants had disturbed. The strain, however, was dif ferent, and rather resembled the music of the methodist hymns, though the measure of the song was similar to that of the former:"

When the fight of grace is fought,-
When the marriage vest is wrought,-

When Faith has chased cold Doubt away,-
And Hope but sickens at delay,-
When Charity, imprisoned here,
Longs for a more expanded sphere;
Doff thy robs of sin and clay;
Christian, rise, and come away.

"Her next seemed to be the fragment of some old ballad:"

Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald,

And sad my sleep of sorrow: But thine sall be as sad and cauld, My fause true-love! to-morrow.

And weep ye not, my maidens free, Though death your mistress borrow; For he for whom I die to-day,

Shall die for me to-morrow

"Again she changed the tune to one wilder, less monotonous, and less regular. But of the words only a fragment or two could be collected by those who listened to this singular scene:"

Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early;

Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

Singing so rarely.

(4.)-CHAP. XXXV.

I beseech you

(2.)-NORMAN THE FORESTER'S SONG. "AND humming his rustic roundelay, the yeoman went on his road, the sound of his rough voice gradually dying away as the distance betwixt them increased."

THE monk must arise when the matins ring,
The abbot may sleep to their chime;

But the yeoman must start when the bugles sing, 'Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time.

There's bucks and raes on Billhope braes, There's a herd on Shortwood Shaw; But a lily white doe in the garden goes, She 's fairly worth them a'.

(3.) THE PROPHECY.

Chap. iii.

"WITH a quivering voice, and a cheek pale with