As in the bosom o' the stream

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.

And now she works her mammie's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,

Ae e'enin on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
"O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?
"At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,

And tent the waving corn wi' me."

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.'

TUNE-" ROBIN ADAIR."

WHILE larks with little wing
Fann'd the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,

Forth I did fare:

Gay the sun's golden eye

Peep'd o'er the mountains high;

Such thy morn! did I cry,

Phillis the fair.

Said to be the sister of Jean M'Murdo.

BY ALLAN STREAM.

In each bird's careless song
Glad did I share;

While yon wild flowers among,
Chance led me there:
Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray
Such thy bloom! did I say,
Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare:
So kind may fortune be,
Such make his destiny,
He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.

263

BY ALLAN STREAM.'

TUNE-"ALLAN WATER. 99

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi;'
The winds were whispering thro' the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:

I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures manie!
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang-
O dearly do I love thee, Annie!3

O, happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!

I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume of the "Museum" in my hand; when turning up "Allan Water," "What numbers shall the Muse repeat," &c., as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, and recollecting that it is on your list, I sat, and raved, under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote out one to suit the measure. I may be wrong, but I think it is not in my worst style. You must know, that in Ramsay's "Tea-Table," where the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, is "Allan Water," or "My love Annie's very bonnie." This last has certainly been a line of the original song; so I took up the idea, and, as you will see, have introduced the line in its place, which I presunie it formerly occupied; though I likewise give you a choos ing line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy. 'Bravo," say

I: "it is a good song."-BURNS to Thomson.

2 A mountain west of Strathallan, 3000 feet high.-R. B..
3 Or, "O my love Annie's very bonnie."-R. B,

Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said "I'm thine for ever!"
While monie a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae;
The simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery, thro' her shortening day,
Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or, thro' each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

HAD I a cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar;
There would I weep my woes,

There seek my lost repose,
Till grief my eyes should close,
Ne'er to wake more.

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare
All thy fond plighted vows-fleeting as air?
To thy new lover hie,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try,
What peace is there!

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.

O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And comena unless the back-yett be a-jée;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye werena comin to me.
And come, &c.

At Kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'dna a flie:

HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE YOUR STRIFE. 265

But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black e'e,
Yet look as ye werena lookin at me.
Yet look, &c.

O whistle, &c.

Aye vow and protest that ye carena for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But courtna anither, tho' jokin ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
For fear, &c.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

"HUSBAND, husband, cease your strife,
No longer idly rave, sir;
Tho' I am your wedded wife,

Yet I am not your slave, sir.”

"One of two must still obey,
Nancy, Nancy;

Is it man or woman, say,
My spouse, Nancy?"

"If 'tis still the lordly word,
Service and obedience;

I'll desert my sov'reign lord,
And so, good-bye, allegiance!”

"Sad will I be, so bereft,
Nancy, Nancy!

Yet I'll try to make a shift,

My spouse, Nancy."

"My poor heart then break it must,
My last hour I'm near it:

When you lay me in the dust,

Think, think how you will bear it.”

"I will hope and trust in Heaven,
Nancy, Nancy;

Strength to bear it will be given,
My spouse, Nancy."

"Well, Sir, from the silent dead
Still I'll try to daunt you;
Ever round your midnight bed
Horrid sprites shall haunt you."

"I'll wed another, like my dear
Nancy, Nancy;

Then all hell will fly for fear,
My spouse, Nancy."

DELUDED SWAIN.

TUNE "THE COLLIER'S DOCHTER."

DELUDED Swain, the pleasure,
The fickle Fair can give thee,
Is but a fairy treasure,

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean,

The breezes idly roamin',
The clouds' uncertain motion,-
They are but types of woman.

O! art thou not ashamed

To doat upon a feature?
If man thou wouldst be named,
Despise the silly creature.

Go, find an honest fellow;
Good claret set before thee;
Hold on till thou art mellow,
And then to bed in glory.

SONG.

TUNE "THE QUAKER'S WIFE.'

THINE am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Ev'ry pulse along my veins,
Ev'ry roving fancy.

To thy bosom lay my heart,
There to throb and languish;
The' despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.