A lady, to whom we are indebted for numberless obligations of a like nature, has sent us a copy of an old Gaelic lullaby or baby-song, the composition of which must clearly be referred to the days when cattle-lifting forays and spuilzies of every description were in high fashion and favour with the gentlemen of the north-- "When tooming faulds, or sweeping of a glen, Had still been held the deed of gallant men." It is in many respects so curious that we venture on a translation of it. Attached to it is a very pretty air, low and soft and subdued as a lullaby air should be, though consisting but of a single part, as was always the case with such compositions, unlike ordinary songs, which generally had two parts, and admitted of endless variations, according to the taste and vocal capabilities of the singer. It is proper to state that our version is not intended to be sung to the original air, for which the measure we have selected is unsuitable. Our only object has been to convey to the English reader the general sense, with something of the spirit and manner, of the original. A Lullaby. "Hush thee, my baby-boy, hush thee to sleep, Soft in my bosom laid, why should'st thou weep; Hush thee, my pretty babe, why should'st thou fear, Well can thy father wield broadsword and spear. "Lullaby, lullaby, hush thee to rest, Snug in my arms as a bird in its nest; Sweet be thy slumbers, boy, dreaming the while A dream that shall dimple thy cheek with a smile. "Helpless and weak as thou 'rt now on my knee, My eaglet shall yet spread his wings and be free-- Free on the mountain side, free in the glen, Strong-handed, swift-footed, a man among men! "Then shall my dalt' bring his muim' a good store Of game from the mountain and fish from the shore; Cattle, and sheep, and goats--graze where they may-- My dalta will find ere the dawn of the day. "Thy father and uncles, with target and sword, Will back each bold venture by ferry and ford; From thy hand I shall yet drain a beaker of wine, And the toast shall be--Health and the lowing of kine! "Then rest thee, my foster-son, sleep and be still, The first star of night twinkles bright on the hill; My brave boy is sleeping--kind angels watch o'er him, And safe to the light of the morning restore him. Lullaby, lullaby, what should he fear, Well can his father wield broadsword and spear!"