How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry?
But soon may peace bring happy days
And Willie hame to Logan braes !

THERE WAS A LASS, AND SHE WAS FAIR.

Tune-"Bonny Jean."

"I HAVE just finished the following ballad," says the poet in a letter to Thomson, "and as I do think it is in my best style, I send it to you." The heroine was Miss Jane M'Murdo, the eldest daughter of John M'Murdo, chamberlain to the Duke of Queensberry. He pictures her not in the rank she held, but in the circumstances of a cottage girl.

THERE was a lass, and she was fair:

At kirk and market to be seen,
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonny Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie :

The blithest bird upon the bush

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

He danced wi' Jeanie on the down ;

And, lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint,3 her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o' the stream,

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o' bonny Jean.

1 Horses.

2 Fair.

3 Lost.

And now she warks her mammie's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,

Or what wad mak her weel again.

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her ee,
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;
Oh, canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent1 the farms wi' me?

"At barn or byre thou shalt na 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."

THE heroine of this song was another daughter of Mr. M'Murdo's, Miss Philadelphia M'Murdo.

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.

1 Mind.

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.

HAD I A CAVE.

Tune-"Robin Adair."

THIS song gives expression to the disappointment of a friend of Burns's, Mr. Alexander Cunningham, who had been cruelly jilted for a wealthier suitor, a solicitor in Edinburgh.

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 high,
Laugh o'er thy perjury,
Then in thy bosom try
What peace is there!

BY ALLAN STREAM I CHANCED TO ROVE.

Tune-"Allan Water."

In a letter to Thomson, the poet says:-"I walked out yesterday evening with a volume of the Museum in my hand, when, turning up Allan Water,' as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air, I sat and raved

I may

under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure. be wrong, but I think it not in my worst style. Bravo! say I; it is a good song. Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than all the year else."

By Allan stream I chanced to rove,

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:
I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures many;
And aye the wild wood echoes rang-
Oh, dearly do I love thee, Annie!

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

The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, "I'm thine for ever!"
While mony 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, through 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 through each nerve the rapture dart,

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

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

Tune-"Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad."

"THE old air of 'Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,"" says the poet to Thomson, "I admire very much, and yesterday I set the following verses to it:"

OH, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad,
Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mither and a' should gae mad,
Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

But warily tent1 when you come to court me,
And come na unless the back yett2 be a-jee;
Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin' to me.

1 Carefully heed.

2 Gate.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye cared na a flie;
But steal me a blink o' your bonny black ee,
Yet look as ye were na looking at me.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly1 my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, though jokin' ye be,
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me.

ADOWN WINDING NITH.

Tune-"The Mucking o' Geordie's Byre."

THE Phillis of this song is supposed to have been Miss Philadelphia M'Murdo the heroine of the lines to "Phillis the Fair," p. 427.

ADOWN winding Nith I did wander,

To mark the sweet flowers as they spring;
Adown winding Nith I did wander,

Of Phillis to muse and to sing.

Awa' wi' your belles and your beauties,
They never wi' her can compare :
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis,

Has met wi' the queen o' the fair.

The daisy amused my fond fancy,
So artless, so simple, so wild;
Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis,
For she is Simplicity's child.

The rosebud's the blush o' my charmer,
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest:
How fair and how pure is the lily,
But fairer and purer her breast!

Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour,
They ne'er wi' my Phillis can vie :

Her breath is the breath o' the woodbine,
Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye.

Her voice is the song of the morning,

That wakes through the green-spreading grove,

When Phoebus peeps over the mountains,

On music, and pleasure, and love.

1 Disparage.