n interest in the establishment of the
Scottish Literary Institute, of which you are now the President--a
society having for its main object the relief, in circumstances of
virtuous indigence, of those men of genius and learning who have
contributed by the pen to perpetuate among our countrymen that spirit of
intelligence and love of freedom which, by his sword, Sir William
Wallace first taught Scotsmen how to vindicate and maintain.

I have the honour to be,
Sir,
Your very obedient, humble servant,
CHARLES ROGERS.

_STIRLING, June 1857._

SCOTTISH LYRICS AND SCOTTISH LIFE.

BY JAMES DODDS.

Judging from a comparison of extant remains, and other means of
information now available, it may be doubted whether any country has
equalled Scotland in the number of its lyrics. By the term _lyrics_, I
mean specifically poetical compositions, meant and suitable to be sung,
with the musical measures to which they have been wedded. I include
under the term, both the compositions themselves, and their music. The
Scottish ballads are numerous, the Scottish songs all but numberless,
and the Scottish tunes an inexhaustible fountain of melody.

"And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be mute."

Look at the vast collections of them which have been published, and the
additions which are ever making, either from some newly-discovered
manuscript, or from oral tradition in some out-of-the-way part of the
country. The numbers, too, which have been preserved, seem to be
exceeded by the numbers that have unfortunately been lost. Who has not
in his ears the hum of many lyrics heard by him in his childhood--from
mother, or nurse, or some old crooning dame at the fireside--which are
to be found in no collection, and which are now to himself but like a
distant, unformed sound? All our collectors, whilst smiling in triumph
over the pearls which they have brought up and borne to the shore,
lament the multitude of precious things irrecoverably buried in the
depths of oblivion. Where, for instance, amid the similar wreck which
has befallen so many others, are now the ancient words pouring forth the
dirge over the "Flowers of the Forest," or those describing the tragic
horrors on the "Braes of Yarrow," or those celebrating the wondrous
attractions of the "Braw Lads o' Gala Water"? We have but the two first
lines--the