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The news frae Moidart cam' yestreen
Will soon gar mony ferlie1;

For ships o' war hae just come in
And landit Royal Charlie.

Come through the heather, around him gather, Ye're a' th' welcomer early;

Around him cling wi' a' your kin,

For wha 'll be King but Charlie?

Come through the heather, around him gather,
Come Ronald, come Donald, com a' thegither,
And crown your rightfu' lawfu' King,

For wha'll be King but Charlie ?
The Hieland clans, wi' sword in hand,
Frae John o' Groats to Airlie,
Hae to a man declared to stand,
Or fa' wi' Royal Charlie,

Come through the heather, &c.
The Lowlands a', baith great and sma',
Wi mony a lord and laird, hae
Declared for Scotia's King and law,
And spier ye wha but Charlie?

Come through the heather, &c.
There's nae a lass in a' the lan',
But vows faith late an' early,
She'll ne'er to man gie heart nor han',
Wha wadna fecht for Charlie.

Come through the heather, &c.

Then here's a health to Charlie's cause,
And be't complete an' early:
His very name our hearts' blood warms,
To arms for Royal Charlie!

Come through the heather, &:c.

I make many wonder.


I'm wearin' awa', John,
Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John,

I'm wearin' awa'

To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, John,
She was baith gude and fair, John;

And oh! we grudged her sair
To the land o' the leal.

But sorrow's sel' wears past, John,
And joy's a-comin' fast, John,
The joy that's aye to last

In the land o' the leal.

Sae dear that joy was bought, John,
Sae free the battle fought, John,
That sinfu' man e'er brought
To the land o' the leal.
Oh! dry your glistening e'e, John,
My soul langs to be free, John,
And angels beckon me,

To the land o' the leal.

Oh! haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's wearin' through, John, And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal. Now fare-ye-weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain

In the land o' the leal


[ANNA LETITIA AIKIN, was born at Kibworth Harcourt, in Leicestershire, 1743. Published Poems, 1773; Miscellaneous Pieces in Prose by J. and A. L. Aikin, 1773. Married Rev. Rochemont Barbauld, 1774. Published Portical Epistle to Mr. Wilberforce, 1791; Hymns in Prose for Little Children, 1811. Died at Stoke Newington, March 9, 1825.]

The poems of Mrs. Barbauld are chiefly written in the elegant pseudo-classic style of the close of the last century. She expresses herself clearly and with grace; a certain artificiality of manner harmonises with her choice of subject. Her poetry is without deep thought or passion; but it is free from blunders of an avoidable kind. The spirit of self-criticism which prompted her to destroy all her juvenile verses, never permitted her to include with her published works any ill-considered thought or unsuccessful effort. ‘I had rather,' she declared, in answer to remonstrance, 'that it should be asked of twenty pieces why they are not here, than of one why it is.' The bulk of Mrs. Barbauld's poetry is inspired by the trivial occasions of domestic life; and when she quits the personal vein, it is of Delia and Damon, of Sylvia and Corin, that she sings; pretty shepherdesses and tuneful shepherds, whose delicate pretence of loving claims no relation to the passions of reality. Such fancies move her to an airy playfulness, a charming feminine kind of humour. She is gay, but her gayest mood is without abandonment. Frequent allusions to the classic poets, quoted lines of Virgil, remind us that the poetess is also a learned lady, a schoolmistress, and an authority on education.

The fame of Mrs. Barbauld's hymns has outlived the rest of her work. Yet with the exception of her charming Hymns in Prose for Little Children, they seem, to a modern reader, deficient in fervour and in religious emotion. They are pure in tone and lofty, but often singularly cold. There can be no doubt, however, of their sincerity.

Mrs. Barbauld essayed her strength in one or two serious poems and epistles on political subjects. In the treatment of such themes she was not happy. It is only in her lighter moods that she is free from a certain complacent shallowness of sentiment which lessens the value of her work. This fault is less noticeable in her later poems, when age and sad experience had overcome her yet even here, in only one of her lyrics, in the close of the Ode to Life, do we meet with much real beauty of feeling. Towards the end of her days she composed the longest of her poems, Eighteen Hundred and Eleven. Her subject is the decline of British power, the transfer of European prestige to America; and it is not surprising that it was received with much disfavour. Nor were the public to be soothed by hearing that the 'ingenuous youth from the Blue Mountains or Ontario's Lake,' forerunners of Lord Macaulay's New Zealander, should, making duteous pilgrimage to London's faded glories, enquire

'Where all-accomplished Jones his race began.'


Mrs. Barbauld could not forgive the public its ingratitude. She took a mild revenge in publishing no more poems, and the step, it may be, was a wise one. In the heyday of the Georgian revival, her academic little verses must have missed their accustomed praise. Her vaunted immortelles had already faded; I fear they will bear no more their golden flowers in any possible future.


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Sweet daughter of a rough and stormy sire,
Hoar Winter's blooming child; delightful Spring

Whose unshorn locks with leaves

And swelling buds are crowned

From the green islands of eternal youth,

Crowned with fresh blooms and ever springing shade;

Turn, hither turn thy step,

O thou, whose powerful voice

More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding winds,

And through the stormy deep

Breathe thine own tender calm.

Thee, best beloved! the virgin train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,

And vales and dewy lawns,

With untired feet; and cull thy earliest sweet,
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow

Of him, the favoured youth

That prompts their whispered sigh.

Unlock thy copious stores,-those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds;
And silent dews that swell

The milky ear's green stem,

And feed the flowering osier's early shoots;

And call those winds which through the whispering boughs

With warm and pleasant breath

Salute the blowing flowers.

Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn

And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale,

And watch with patient eye

Thy fair unfolding charms.

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