By Auchtertyre grows the aik, On Yarrow banks the birken shaw; But Phemie was a bonnier lass Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. Her looks were like a flower in May, Her bonny face it was as meek The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet The Highland hills I've wandered wide, A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, All on a dewy morning. Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, In a' its crimson glory spread, And drooping rich the dewy head, It scents the early morning. Within the bush, her covert nest, Sae early in the morning. She soon shall see her tender brood, So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair! So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay, TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG LADY. WRITTEN ON THE BLANK-LEAF OF A BOOK PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. BEA EAUTEOUS Rose-bud, young and gay, Never mayst thou, lovely flower, Never, never reptile thief Riot on thy virgin leaf, Nor even Sol too fiercely view Thy bosom blushing still with dew! Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem, Shed thy dying honours round, And resign to parent earth The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS TUNE- Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny. WHERE, braving angry winter's storms, The lofty Ochils rise, Far in their shade my Peggy's charms Blest be the wild, sequestered shade, When first I felt their power! The tyrant Death, with grim control, my fleeting breath; But tearing Peggy from my soul MY PEGGY'S FACE. TUNE- My Peggy's Face. Y Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, MY The frost of hermit age might warm;, My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, Might charm the first of humankind. I love my Peggy's angel air, Her face so truly, heavenly fair, Her native grace so void of art, But I adore my Peggy's heart. The lily's hue, the rose's dye, ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER. SENT WITH A SILHOUETTE PORTRAIT. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, A name which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 't is despised and neglected. Though something like moisture conglobes in my A eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wanderer were royal. My fathers that name have revered on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, The Queen, and the rest of the gentry; Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine, Their title 's avowed by my country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, If bringing them over was lucky for us, |