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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 :-


TUNE-"Oh, an ye were dead, Guidman!"
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.

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,
Wha used at trysts and fairs to driddle,
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.

Grahame wrote nothing peculiarlyScotch in manner; but few poets have confined themselves more closely to their native country in the choice of their subjects, or evinced, by their lingering fondness over its features, greater love for it than he did; and possibly, while his poetry is becoming less known at home, it possesses attractions for the expatriated "Scot abroad," through its being thus saturated with the recollections of the

land to whose rigorous clime and sterile❘

features"distance lends enchantment."



How still the morning of the hallowed day: Mute is the voice of rural labour hushed, The ploughboy's whistle, and the milk

maid's song.

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On other days the man of toil is doomed The scythe lies glittering in the dewy To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the wreath


Of tedded grass, mingled with fading Both seat and board; screened from the flowers, winter's cold

That yester-morn bloomed waving in the And summer's heat by neighbouring


Sounds the most faint attact the ear,-the hum

Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating midway up the hill. Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.

To him who wanders o'er the upland leas, The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale;

And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark

Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook

hedge or tree;

But on this day, embosomed in his home, He shares the frugal meal with those he loves;

With those he loves he shares the heartfelt joy

Of giving thanks to God,-not thanks of form,

A word and a grimace, but reverently, With covered face and upward earnest


Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day :

Murmurs more gently down the deep- The pale mechanic now has leave to

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While from yon lowly roof, whose curling The morning air, pure from the city's smoke ;


While wandering slowly up the river side, He meditates on Him, whose power he marks

In each green tree that proudly spreads the bough,

As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that


Around its roots; and while he thus sur


With elevated joy, each rural charm, He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope,

That heaven may be one Sabbath without end.

But now his steps a welcome sound recals:

Solemn the knell, from yonder ancient pile,

Fills all the air, inspiring joyful awe: Slowly the throng moves o'er the tombpaved ground;

The aged man, the bowèd down, the blind,

Led by the thoughtless boy, and he who breathes

With pain, and eyes the new-made grave well pleased;

These, mingled with the young, the gay, approach

The house of God; these, spite of all their ills,

A glow of gladness feel: with silent praise They enter in. A placid stillness reigns, Until the man of God, worthy the name, Arise, and read the anointed shepherd's


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It is most needed in this vale of tears: Yes, make the widow's heart to sing for joy';

The stranger to discern the Almighty's shield

Held o'er his friendless head; the orphan child

Feel, 'mid his tears, I have a father still! 'Tis done.

But hark that infant querulous voice!

Plaint not discordant to a parent's ear: And see the father raise the white-robed babe

In solemn dedication to the Lord : The holy man sprinkles with forthstretched hand

The face of innocence; then earnest turns,

His locks of snow, his brow serene, his And prays a blessing in the name of look


Of love, it speaks, "Ye are my children Who said, "Let little children come to all: Me; The grey-haired man, stooping upon his Forbid them not.' staff,

As well as he, the giddy child, whose eye Pursues the swallow flitting thwart the dome."

The infant is replaced Among the happy band; they, smilingly, In gay attire, hie to the house of mirth, The poor man's festival, a jubilee day, Remembered long.

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