to old tunes. Dr. Austin, a fashionable physician in Edinburgh, consoled himself for the loss of a lady who jilted him in a song which has supported many in similar circumstances, For Lack of Gold. Alexander Wilson, who afterwards attained fame as an ornithologist, began life as a pedlar and strung breezy lyrics together as he wandered on cheerfully from door to door with his pack on his back. 'Balloon' Tytler-so called from his aeronautic experiments-chemist, mechanician, original editor and principal compiler of the Encyclopaedia Britannica, showed in Loch Erroch Side, and The Bonnie Brucket Lassie, that scientific pursuits had not dimmed his freshness of feeling. Blind Dr. Blacklock, who kept a boarding-school, warbled 'in the manner of Shenstone,' about the harvest that waves in the breeze and the music that floats on the gale. Richard Hewitt, Blacklock's amanuensis, emulated the work of his master in the same vein. The famous song, Hey Johnnie Cope, which deserves to be ranked among the best songs of the period, was the composition of Adam Skirving, a wealthy Haddingtonshire farmer. John Lowe, a gardener's son, wrote Mary, weep no more for me. John Mayne, a compositor, wrote Logan Braes. A song-writer of wider culture was the Rev. John Logan, Minister of Leith, the writer of the most eloquent sermons which the Scotch Church has produced. It is difficult in reading Logan's poetry to divest oneself of sympathy with the story of his unhappy life, but there seems to be more in his verse than mere general literary facility. He was a writer of sacred as well as 'profane' songs, but his essays in the latter direction, though they disturbed his relations with his brethren, help to redeem the Ministers of the Scotch Kirk from the reproach of having contributed less than any other class in the community to the national lyric movement of the eighteenth century.

W. MINTO.

TULLOCHGORUM.

JOHN SKINNER. Born 1721; died 1801.]

Come gie's a sang, Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside,
What signifies 't for folk to chide

For what's been done before them?
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree,

To drop their Whig-mig-morum ;
Let Whig and Tory all agree,
To spend the night in mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,
The reel o' Tullochgorum.

O, Tullochgorum's my delight,
It gars us a' in ane unite,

And ony sumph that keeps up spite,

In conscience I abhor him.

For blythe and cheery we's be a,
Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery,
Blythe and cheery we's be a',

And mak' a happy quorum.

For blythe and cheery we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel of Tullochgorum.

There needs na' be sae great a phrase,
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays,

I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys
For half a hundred score o' 'em.
They're douff" and dowie3 at the best,
Douff and dowie, douff and dowie,
They're douff and dowie at the best
Wi' a' their variorum.

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest,

They canna please a Scottish taste,
Compar'd wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fears of want, and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum.
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum?
Shall we so sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense, nor mirth, nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit

To the reel of Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest open-hearted friend,
And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him!

May peace and plenty be his lot, Peace and plenty, peace and plenty, May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' 'em; May peace and plenty be his lot, Unstain'd by any vicious spot! And may he never want a groat That's fond of Tullochgorum.

But for the dirty, yawning fool,
Who wants to be oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,
And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say wae's me for 'im!

May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be, that winna dance
The reel of Tullochgorum.

LOGIE O' BUCHAN.

[GEORGE HALKET. Died 1756.]

O Logie o' Buchan, O Logie the laird,

They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, that delved in the yard,
Wha play'd on the pipe, and the viol sae sma',
They ha'e ta'en awa' Jamie, the flow'r o' them a'.

He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa';
He said, Think na lang lassie, tho' I gang awa';
For simmer is coming, cauld winter 's awa',
And I'll come and see thee in spite of them a'.

Tho' Sandy has ousen1, has gear, and has kye;
A house, and a hadden, and siller forbye:
Yet I'd tak' my ain lad, wi' his staff in his hand,
Before I'd ha'e him, wi' the houses and land.

My daddie looks sulky, my minnie looks sour,
They frown upon Jamie because he is poor;
Tho' I lo'e them as weel as a daughter should do,
They're nae half sa dear to me, Jamie, as you.

I sit on my creepie3, I spin at my wheel,
And think on the laddie that lo'ed me sae weel;
He had but ae saxpence, he brak it in twa,
And gied me the hauf o't when he ga'd awa'.

Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa',
Then haste ye back, Jamie, and bide na awa',
The simmer is coming, cauld winter 's awa',
And ye'll come and see me in spite o' them a'.
3 low stool.

1

oxen

• land (holding),

LEWIE GORDON.

[ALEXANDER GEDDES. Born 1737; died 1802.]

Oh! send Lewie Gordon hame
And the lad I daurna' name;
Although his back be at the wa',
Here's to him that's far awa'.

Hech hey! my Highlandman!

My handsome, charming Highlandman!
Weel could I my true love ken,
Amang ten thousand Highlandmen.

Oh, to see his tartan trews,
Bonnet blue and laigh-heel'd shoes,
Philabeg aboon his knee!

That's the lad that I'll gang wi'.

This lovely lad of whom I sing,
Is fitted for to be a king;

And on his breast he wears a star,
You'd take him for the god of war.

Oh, to see this princely one
Seated on his father's throne!
Our griefs would then a' disappear,
We'd celebrate the jub'lee year.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE

[JEAN ADAMS. Died 1765.]

And are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think of wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to think o' wark.
When Colin's at the door?

Gie me my cloak! I'll to the quay
And see him come ashore.