FRAGMENT,

IN WITHERSPOON'S COLLECTION OF SCOT'S SONGS.

AIR

"Hughie Graham."

O WERE my love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing:

How wad I mourn when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,
When youthful May its bloom renew❜d.*

"O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa',

And I mysel' a drap o' dew
Into her bonie breast to fa'!

"O, there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light."

* These stanzas were prefixed by Burns.

ADDRESS TO A LADY.

Он, wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea,

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:

Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there:

Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen

THE AULD MAN.

BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoice the day;

Thro' gentle show'rs the laughing flow'rs
In double pride were gay.

But now our joys are fled
On winter blasts awa;
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in Time's wint'ry rage.

Oh, age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain; Thou golden time o' youthful prime, Why com'st thou not again?

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snow: But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither;

If she winna ease the thraws,
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass-green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.

BANKS OF NITH.

TUNE "Robie Donna Gorach."

THE Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;

But sweeter flows the Nith to me,

Where Commons ance had high command!

When shall I see that honor'd land,
That winding stream I love so dear?
Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom! How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom!

Tho' wand'ring now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days!

BANKS OF CREE.

HERE is the glen, and here the bow'r,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village bell has told the hour:
O what can stay my lovely maid?

"Tis not Maria's whisp'ring call;
"Tis but the balmy-breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler's dying call,
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear!

So calls the wood-lark, in the grove, His little faithful mate to cheer:

At once 'tis music and 'tis love.

And art thou come? and art thou true?
O welcome, dear to love and me!
And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flow'ry banks of Cree.

CASTLE GORDON.

STREAMS that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,

There commix'd with foulest stains