thoress of "Auld Robin Gray." Many liberties have been taken with the words: there are few songs which have undergone more changes within these forty years. The present version differs from all that precede it; and it seems to me to have increased in sweetness and simplicity. The story of the song is very simple, and is generally felt, because it is true.Some forty years ago, in the north country, oppressors like "Logie the laird" were not wanting, to dispose of the surplus youth of the district to the army or the plantations; and many moving stories might be told of such acts of tyranny and injustice. THE HIGHLAND CHARACTER. In the garb of old Gaul, with the fire of old Rome, Such is our love of liberty, our country, and our laws, cause: We'll bravely fight, like heroes bold, for honour and applause, And defy the French, with all their force, to alter our laws. No effeminate customs our sinews unbrace; ba Our loud-sounding pipe breathes the true martial strain, And our hearts still the old Scottish valour retain. We're tall as the oak on the mount of the vale, As a storm in the ocean, when Boreas blows, So are we enrag'd when we rush on our foes; Quebec and Cape Breton, the pride of old France, In our realm may the fury of faction long cease, Sir Harry Erskine of Torry wrote this song, and the fine air has combined with national vanity to give greater popularity to the words than they seem to merit. There is a good deal of animation and some pedantry-a great love of country and a moderate love of truth, and an enthusiasm which carries patriotism into bombast. wish his praise of our valour had been more modest, and his account of our exploits more discreet. It was printed by David Herd in 1769, and the music was added by General Reid. More natural strains and more accurate praise have succeeded in rendering this far-famed song less a favourite than heretofore. THE SMILING PLAINS, PROFUSELY GAY. The smiling plains, profusely gay, I mourn thy absence, charming maid! O soft as love! as honour fair! Thy presence lasting joy shall bring, And give the year eternal spring. To William Falconer, author of "The Shipwreck," we owe this song, if we can imagine we have incurred a debt of obligation or praise by such a hasty and imperfect production. It contains nothing either peculiar or national-its love is general, and its description diffuse. I could not refuse place to a brief effusion of an unfortunate son of song; and the pleasure which his fine poem of "The Shipwreck" has given me would have secured insertion to less captivating verse. The new scenes which that pathetic poem opened, and the perfect enchantment which the whole narrative threw over me, were such as I can never forget. The truth and nature of his story-the singular mixture of ancient glory with present sufferings-the labours of the mariners-the augmenting fury of the devouring element, and the final catastrophe, form altogether a tale which one cannot well escape from without reading; and when once read, it possesses and haunts one. In December 1769 he sailed for India in the Aurora frigate, in the 39th year of his age: the ship was never more heard of after leaving the Cape of Good Hope, and the poet perished with her. He was a native of Edinburgh. HARK YON SWEET BIRD. Hark yon sweet bird that lonely wails, His faithful bosom grief assails: Last night I heard him in a dream, 'Twas love that tamed his tender breast- He hangs his feathers since that fate |