HAME, HAME, HAME.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!

O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on the

tree,

The lark shall sing me hame to my ain countrie;

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!

O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie's beginning now to fa';
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But we'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
And green it will graw in my ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There's nocht now frae ruin my country can save,
But the keys o' kind heaven, to open the grave,
That a' the noble martyrs, wha died for loyaltie,
May rise again and fight for their ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save; The green grass is growing abune their bludie grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e. I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie.

Hame, hame, hame! Hame fain wad I be!
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

[This song is noticed in the introduction of "The Fortunes of Nigel," and part of it is sung by Richie Moniplies. It is supposed to come from the lips of a Scottish Jacobite Exile. From Cromek's Nithsdale and Galloway Song, 1810.]

PHEMIE IRVING.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Gay is thy glen, Corrie,

With all thy groves flowering;
Green is thy glen, Corrie,

When July is showering;
And sweet is yon wood where
The small birds are bowering,
For there dwells the sweet one
Whom I am adoring.

Her round neck is whiter

Than winter when snowing;

Her meek voice is milder

Than Ae in its flowing;
The glad ground yields music
Where she goes by the river;
One kind glance would charm me
For ever and ever.

The proud and the wealthy
To Phemie are bowing;
No looks of love win they
With sighing and suing ;
Far away maun I stand
With my rude wooing,
She's a floweret too lovely
To bloom for my pu’ing.

O were I yon violet,

On which she is walking ! O were I yon small bird,

To which she is talking! Or yon rose in her hand,

With its ripe ruddy blossom! Or some pure gentle thought, To be blest with her bosom !

THE SAILOR'S LADY.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Come busk you gallantlie,

Busk and make you ready,

Maiden, busk and come,
And be a sailor's lady.

The foamy ocean's ours,

From Hebride to Havannah, And thou shalt be my queen,

And reign upon it Anna.

See my bonnie ship,

So stately and so steady; Thou shalt be my queen,

And she maun be my lady : The west wind in her wings,

The deep sea all in motion,

Away she glorious goes,

And crowns me king of ocean.

The merry lads are mine,

From Thames, and Tweed, and Shannon;

The Bourbon flowers grow pale

When I hang out my pennon;
I'll win thee gold and gems
With pipe and cutlass clashing,
With all my broad sails set,
And all my cannon flashing.

Come with me and see

The golden islands glowing, Come with me and hear

The flocks of India lowing;
Thy fire shall be of spice,

The dews of eve drop manna,
Thy chamber floor of gold,
And men adore thee, Anna.

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Cauld winter is awa', my love,
And spring is in her pride;
The breath of heaven stirs a' to life,
And beauty far and wide.
The birds canna contain themsel's
Upon the sprouting tree,
But loudlie, loudlie, sing of love;
A theme which pleaseth me.

The blackbird is a pawky loon,
An' kens the gate of love;
Fu' weel the sleekit mavis ken
The melting lilt maun move.

The gowdspink woos in gentle note,

And ever singeth he,

Come here, come here, my spousal dame !—

A theme which pleaseth me.

What says the songster rose-linnet?

His breast is beating high,

Come here, come here, my ruddie mate

The way of love to try!

The laverock calls his freckled mate,

Frae near the sun's e'e-bree,

Make on the knowe, our nest, my love!—
A theme which pleaseth me.

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