chabers he remained till the year 1806, when he
again returned to the south. He died at Wigton on the 18th January
1818. From a MS. Life of Dr Couper, in the possession of a gentleman in
Wigton, and communicated to Dr Murray, author of "The Literary History
of Galloway," these leading events of Dr Couper's life were first
published by Mr Laing, in his "Additional Illustrations to the Scots
Musical Museum," vol. iv. p. 513.

Dr Couper published "Poetry, chiefly in the Scottish Language"
(Inverness, 1804), 2 vols. 12mo. Among some rubbish, and much tawdry
versification, there is occasional power, which, however, is
insufficient to compensate for the general inferiority. There are only a
few songs, but these are superior to the poems; and those following are
not unworthy of a place among the modern national minstrelsy.

KINRARA.

TUNE--_"Neil Gow."_

Red gleams the sun on yon hill-tap,
The dew sits on the gowan;
Deep murmurs through her glens the Spey,
Around Kinrara rowan.
Where art thou, fairest, kindest lass?
Alas! wert thou but near me,
Thy gentle soul, thy melting eye,
Would ever, ever cheer me.

The lav'rock sings among the clouds,
The lambs they sport so cheerie,
And I sit weeping by the birk:
O where art thou, my dearie?
Aft may I meet the morning dew,
Lang greet till I be weary;
Thou canna, winna, gentle maid!
Thou canna be my dearie.

THE SHEELING.

TUNE--_"The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre."_

Oh, grand bounds the deer o'er the mountain,
And smooth skims the hare o'er the plain;
At noon, the cool shade by the fountain
Is sweet to the lass and her swain.
The ev'ning sits down dark and dreary;
Oh, yon 's the loud joys of the ha';
The laird sings his dogs and his dearie--
Oh, he kens na his singin' ava.

But oh, my dear lassie, when wi' thee,
What 's the deer and the maukin to me?
The storm soughin' wild drives me to thee,
And the plaid shelters baith me and thee.
The wild warld then may be reeling,
Pride and riches may lift up their e'e;
My plaid haps us baith in the sheeling--
That 's a' to my lassie and me.

THE EWE-BUGHTS, MARION.[6]

Oh, mind ye the ewe-bughts, my Marion?
It was ther I forgather'd wi' thee;
The sun smiled sweet ower the mountain,
And saft sough'd the leaf on the tree.