Now's the day and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave ? Traitor! coward! turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Caledonian on wi' me! By oppression's woes and pains! Lay the proud usurpers low! FOR A' THAT, AND A' THAT. Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that; Our toil's obscure and a' that, What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; His riband, star, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that. SCOTTISH BALLAD. TUNE-"The Lothian Lassie." LAST May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, I said there was nothing I hated like men; I said he might die when he liked, for Jean; A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, I never loot on that I kenn'd it, or cared, But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less, Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her. I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet, He begg'd, for Gudesake! I wad be his wife, I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, SONG. TUNE-" Here's a health to them that's awa, hiney." CHORUS. Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, ALTHOUGH thou maun never be mine, 'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, I guess by the dear angel smile, THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, will ye go, Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, Bonnie lassie, &c. While o'er their heads the hazels hing, Bonnie lassie, &c. The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, White o'er the linns the burnie pours, And rising, weets wi' misty showers The birks of Aberfeldy. Bonnie lassie, &c. Let fortune's gifts at random flee, I LOVE MY JEAN. TUNE-" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey." Or a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best: There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between ; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs, But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And mony a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand and hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. THE POSIE. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear, For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer; And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll pu' the budding rose when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou; The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging blue, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near, And the diamond draps o' dew shall be her e'en sae clear: The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band of luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; THE BANKS O' DOON. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons through the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And fondly sae did I o' mine. Auld baudrans by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig, She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-Water: Sic a wife as Willie had, SONG. TUNE-"Catharine Ogie." YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, Thou❜l break my heart, thou bonnie bird When my fause luve was true. Thou'l break my heart, thou bonnie bird Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, And sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, And my fause luver staw the rose, SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie; She has an e'e, she has but ane, Her nose and chin they threaten ither; She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? WILT thou be my dearie? When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, O wilt thou let me cheer thee? By the treasure of my soul, And that's the love I bear thee! I swear and vow, that only thou Only thou, I swear and vow, Lassie, say thou lo'es me; Or if thou wilt na be my ain, If it winna, canna be, Lassie, let me quickly die, FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. My heart is sair, I dare na tell, My heart is sair for somebody; I could wake a winter night I could range the world around, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, And send me safe my somebody Oh-hey! for somebody! I wad do what wad I not? A RED, RED ROSE. O MY luve's like a red, red rose, That's sweetly play'd in tune And I will luve thee still, my dear, And fare thee weel, my only luve! SONG. AE fond kiss and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, THE BONNIE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA. O How can I be blithe and glad, Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo❜e best, Is o'er the hills and far awa? 30 U 2 359 SAMUEL ROGERS. SAMUEL ROGERS, one of the most elegant of the | a recent edition has been given to the world, accomBritish poets, was the son of a banker, and himself panied with numerous engravings. This poem is follows that business in London, where he was born, about 1760. He received a learned education, which he completed by travelling through most of the countries of Europe, including France, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, &c. He has been all his life master of an ample fortune, and not subject, therefore, to the common reverses of an author, in which character he first appeared in 1787, when he published a spirited Ode to Superstition, with other poems. These were succeeded, after an interval of five years, by the Pleasures of Memory; a work which at once established his fame as a first-rate poet. In 1798, he published his Epistle to a Friend, with other poems; and did not again come forward, as a poet, till 1814, when he added to a collected edition of his works, his somewhat irregular poem of the Vision of Columbus. In the same year came out his Jaqueline, a tale, in company with Lord Byron's Lara; and, in 1819, his Human Life. In 1822, was published his first part of Italy, which has since been completed, in three volumes, duodecimo; and of which, | Campbell." his last and greatest, but by no means his best, performance; though an eminent writer in the New Monthly Magazine calls it "perfect as a whole." There are certainly many very beautiful descriptive passages to be found in it; and it is totally free from meretriciousness: but we think the author has too often mistaken commonplace for simplicity, to render it of much value to his reputation, as a whole. It is as the author of the Pleasures of Memory, that he will be chiefly known to posterity, though, at the same time, some of his minor poems are among the most pure and exquisite fragments of verse, which the poets of this age have produced. In society, few men are said to be more agreeable in manners and conversation than the venerable subject of our memoir; and his benevolence is said to be on a par with his taste and accomplishments. Lord Byron must have thought highly of his poetry, if he were sincere in saying, "We are all wrong, excepting Rogers, Crabbe, and O COULD my mind, unfolded in my page, THE poem begins with the description of an obscure village, and of the pleasing melancholy which it excites on being revisited after a long absence. This mixed sensation is an effect of the memory. From an effect we naturally ascend to the cause; and the subject proposed is then unfolded, with an investigation of the nature and leading principles of this faculty. It is evident that our ideas flow in continual succession, and introduce each other with a certain degree of regu larity. They are sometimes excited by sensible objects, and sometimes by an internal operation of the mind. Of the former species is most probably the memory of brutes; and its many sources of pleasures to them, as well as to us, are considered in the first part. The latter is the most perfect degree of memory, and forms the subject of the second. When ideas have any relation whatever, they are attractive of each other in the mind; and the perception of any object naturally leads to the idea of another, which was connected with it either in time or place, or which can be compared or contrasted with it. Hence arises our |