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 7 When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round his dwelling, And the roar of the linn, On the night breeze is swelling, Then so merrily he'll sing, As the storm rattles o'er him, To the dear sheeling ring, Wi' the light-lilting jorum. Now the summer is in prime, Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes o' Balquhidder.

The Thistle, LET them boast of their country, give Pa- trick his fame, Of the land in the ocean, and Anglian name, With their red blushing roses, and sham- rock sae green;