You say my sweetheart, Sally's weel- God speed ye weel! a cannier pair Suin, Harry, bring her frae the town, And happy let us be; This house, the field, the cow, the sow, Now aw belang to thee. TRAFALGAR SEA-FIGHT. 1805. BY MISS GILPIN. [AIR: "Mrs. Casey."-We have only been able to meet with one printed copy of this spirited song, which will be found in Anderson's Cumberland Ballads, Wigton, 1808. It is there said to be "By a Lady;" but there can be no doubt that it was written by Miss Gilpin.] O lass! I's fit to brust wi' news! There's letters frae the fleet; We've bang'd the French, aye, out and out, There was sec show'rs o' shell grenades, Bunch'd out wi' shot, like grapes ; And bullets, big as beath our heads, Chain'd twea and twea wi' reapes. Our Jwohn was perch'd abuin their heads, To keep a sharp luik out; And tell them, gin he kent his-sel, What they were aw about: They skimm'd the skin of Jwohnny's cheek, He niver heeded that, But rwoar'd, tho' he was main-mast height, We'll pay them weel for that! It was a seet! our Jwohnny says, And aw their colours flifty flaff— Some reed, some blue, some green : The French rang'd up in aw their preyde, Afwore our thunder brast; But lang afwore it ceas'd to rwoar, It hardly left a mast. But we ha'e paid a fearfu' preyce; For NELSON is no more! That soul o' fire has breath'd his last, Far frae his native shore ! “O waes in me!" our Jwohnny says, "That I sud ha'e to tell; "For nit a man aboard the fleet, "But wish'd 't had been his-sel." Our British tars hev kindly hearts, They'll shout, when ships are gangin down, But try to seave the men : They'll risk the life that's hardly won, And sorrow dashes owre their een, THE VILLAGE CLUB. BY MISS GILPIN. I lives in a neat little cottage; O lozes o' me! we are merry, I nobbet but wish ye could hear; Dick Spriggins he acts sae leyke players, Ye niver heard naething sae queer. And first he comes in for King Richard, And stamps wid his fit on the ground; He wad part wid his kingdom for horses; O lozes o' me! what a sound. And then he comes in for young Roma, And spreads out his leetle black fist; I's just fit to drop whilst he's talking; Ye niver seed yen sae distrest. O lozes o' me! it is moving, I hates for to hear a man cry; And then he luiks up at a window, To see if lal Juliet be by. And then he lets wi't that she's talking, And speaks that ye hardly can hear; But I think she ca's out on Squire Roma, And owther says Hinney or Dear. Then up wi' Dick Spriggins for ever! May he leeve a' the days of his life; May his bairns be as honest as he's been, And may he aye maister his wife. MISS BLAMIRE'S MISCELLANEOUS SONGS. THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. [AIR: "Traveller's Return."-This beautiful, simple ballad-sometimes called The Nabob-may be found in almost every Scottish song book published during the last fifty years. It is supposed to have been written about 1788. Many copies of it exist, but the one here given is decidedly the best. It will be found set to music in R. A. Smith's "Scottish Minstrel," vol. vi.] HEN silent time, wi' lightly foot, Had trod on thirty years, Wi' mony hopes and fears: Wha kens gin the dear friends I left May still continue mine? Or gin I e'er again shall taste As I drew near my ancient pile, Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak Those days that follow'd me afar, Those happy days o' mine, Whilk made me think the present joys |