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For drink I would venture my neck,
A hizzie's the half o' my craft,
But what could ye other expect,
Of ane that's avowedly daft?
I ance was tied up like a stirk,
For civilly swearing and quaffing!
I ance was abused in the kirk,

For touzling a lass i' my daffin.

Poor Andrew, that tumbles for sport, Let naebody name wi' a jeer : There's even, I'm tauld, i' the court A tumbler ca'd the premier. Observed ye yon reverend lad

Maks faces to tickle the mob? He rails at our mountebank squadIt's rivalship just i' the job. And now my conclusion I'll tell,

For faith I'm confoundedly dry: The chiel that's a fool for himsel, Gude Lord! he's far dafter than I.


Then neist outspak a raucle carlin,
Wha ken't fu' weel to cleek the sterling,
For mony a pursie she had hookit,
And had in mony a well been doukit;
Her dove had been a Highland laddie,
But weary fa' the the waefu' woodie!
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began
To wail her braw John Highlandman :—


With his philibeg and tartan plaid,
And guid claymore down by his side,
The ladies' hearts he did trepan,
My gallant braw John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.

We rangèd a' from Tweed to Spey, And lived like lords and ladies gay : For a Lawland face he feared none, My gallant braw John Highlandman. Sing, hey, &c.

They banish'd him beyond the sea,
But ere the bud was on the tree,
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran,
Embracing my John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.

But, oh! they catch'd him at the last,
And bound him in a dungeon fast :
My curse upon them every one,
They've hang'd my braw John Highland-


Sing, hey, &c.

And now a widow, I must mourn
The pleasures that will ne'er return;
Nae comfort but a hearty can,
When I think on John Highlandman.
Sing, hey, &c.


A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle,

TUNE-"Oh, an ye were dead, Guidman!" | Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle,

A Highland lad my love was born, The Lawland laws he held in scorn; But he still was faithfu' to his clan, My gallant braw John Highlandman.


Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman!
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman!
There's not a lad in a' the lan'
Was match for my John Highlandman.

Her strappin' limb and gawcy middle (He reach'd nae higher), Had holed his heartie like a riddle, And blawn't on fire.

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward ee,
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three,
Then in an arioso key,

The wee Apollo,
Set off wi' allegretto glee
His giga solo.

We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk;

She lays sae about her, and maks sic a din,

"She frightens the baby," quo' Tam o' We met in the sunshine, we met in the

the Lin.

Tam o' the Lin grew dowie and douce,


And the sound o' her voice and the blinks

o' her e'en,

And he sat on a stane at the end o' his The cheerin' and life of my bosom hae


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Leaves frae the tree at Martinmas flee,

And poverty parts sweet company.

At bridal and infare I've braced me wi' pride,

The broose I hae won and a kiss o' the bride;

And loud was the laughter good fellows among,

As I uttered my banter or chorus'd my song.

Dowie to dree are jestin' and glee,
When poverty spoils guid com- •


Wherever I gaed, kindly lasses looked sweet,

And mithers and aunties were unco discreet;

While kebbuck and bicker were set on the board;

But now they pass by me, and never a word.

Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee

Wi' poverty keep nae company.

But the hope o' my love is a cure for its


The piper played cheerie, the crusie And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep

up my heart;

burn'd bright, And linked in my hand was the maiden For wi' my last saxpence her loof I hae sae dear,


As she footed the floor in her holiday And the bliss that is fated can never be gear!

Woe's me and can it then be

That poverty parts sic company?


Tho' cruelly we may ilka day see How poverty parts dear company.




THE subject of Grahame's best known | dilate on its merits; and so hearty was poem, "The Sabbath," is one that has her admiration, that he was constrained been held in peculiar veneration in Scot- to admit her into the secret. land. There can be little doubt that to this cause, as much as to its poetical merits, it owed a great part of the esteem in which it was long held. It is doubtful if it is much read in Scotland now, even by those who still cling to the ascetic observance of the Sabbath; indeed, its conception of the subject is far too poetical and liberal to suit the taste of the advocates of a rigid enforcement of extreme views of Sabbath observance; and the poet himself, though a man of serious sentiments, was not a man of narrow sympathies.

James Grahame was born on the 22d April 1765, in the city of Glasgow, where his father was a writer, or solicitor. He was educated at the grammarschool, and afterwards at the Glasgow University.

At the age of nineteen he was apprenticed to his cousin, Mr Lawrence Hill, Writer to the Signet, Edinburgh; and at the termination of his apprenticeship became a member of that body. He became a member of the Faculty of Advocates in 1795. In 1804, he published "The Sabbath" anonymously, taking great precautions to conceal the authorship, and not even letting his wife know, until one day, having left a copy on her table, as if by accident, she became so interested in the poem, that on his coming home she began to

The law was not Grahame's profession by choice; and on his father's death, his own health being far from robust, he resolved to enter the Church. this view he proceeded to London, and in 1809 was ordained by the Bishop of Norwich, and soon after was appointed to the curacy of Shepton Mayne, in Gloucestershire. He resigned this charge in about a year, and returned to Edinburgh, and offered himself for a vacancy in St George's Episcopal Chapel, but was unsuccessful. next obtained the curacy of Sedgefield, in Durham, where he was favoured by the bishop; but his health having given way, he returned to Edinburgh for medical advice. His illness increased, however; and wishing once more to visit Glasgow, his native city, he left Edinburgh to proceed thither, but died on the journey at Whitehall, the residence of his brother, on the 14th September 1811.


Besides the "Sabbath," Grahame wrote "Mary Queen of Scotland," a drama, published in 1801; “Biblical Pictures," and "The Birds of Scotland” (1806) and British Georgics (1809), áll of them containing fragments of poetic beauty, and evincing minute and correct powers of observation, but on the whole too serious and monotonous to make them generally readable or interesting.

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While burns, wi' snawy wreaths upchoked,

Wild-eddying swirl, Or through the mining outlet bock'd, Down headlong hurl.

Listening the doors and winnocks rattle,

I thought me on the ourie cattle,
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle
O' winter war,
And through the drift, deep-lairing

Beneath a scaur.

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing, That, in the merry months o' spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing,

What comes o' thee? Whare wilt thou cower thy chittering wing,

And close thy ee!

Even you, on murdering errands toil'd, Lone from your savage homes exiled, The blood-stain'd roost, and sheepcot spoil'd,

My heart forgets, While pitiless the tempest wild Sore on you beats.

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign, Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain; Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, Rose in my soul,

When on my ear this plaintive strain, Slow, solemn, stole :

"Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust!

And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows! Not all your rage as now united, shows More hard unkindness, unrelenting, Vengeful malice unrepenting, Than heaven-illumined man on brother man bestows!

"See stern Oppression's iron grip, Or mad Ambition's gory hand, Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land! Even in the peaceful rural vale, Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, How pamper'd Luxury, Flattery by her side,

The parasite empoisoning her ear,

With all the servile wretches in the rear, Looks o'er proud Property, extended wide;

And eyes the simple rustic hind,

Whose toil upholds the glittering show, A creature of another kind,

Some coarser substance unrefined, Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below.

"Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe,

With lordly Honour's lofty brow,

The powers you proudly own? Is there, beneath Love's noble name, Can harbour dark the selfish aim, To bless himself alone! Mark maiden innocent a prey

To love-pretending snares, This boasted Honour turns away, Shunning soft Pity's rising sway, Regardless of the tears and unavailing prayers!

Perhaps this hour, in misery's squalid


She strains your infant to her joyless breast,

And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast!

"O ye who, sunk in beds of down, Feel not a want but what yourselves create,

Think for a moment on his wretched fate

Whom friends and fortune quite disown!

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