the roe,

the roe,

I go.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring is not here;

stream, My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her the deer:

dream. A-chasing the wild deer, and following My heart's in the Highlands wherever I

Thou stock-dove, whose echo resounds

thro' the glen, go.

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny

den, Farewell to the mountains, high-covered with snow;

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming

forbear, Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;

I charge you disturb not my slumbering

fair. Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging

woods, Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring floods.

hills,

Far marked with the courses of clear windMy heart's in the Highlands, my heart

ing rills; is not here;

There daily I wander as

noon rises My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing high, the deer;

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my A-chasing the wild deer, and following

eye. My heart's in the Highlands wherever

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys

below, JOHN ANDERSON MY JO Where wild in the woodlands the prim

roses blow; John Anderson my jo, John,

There oft, as mild Evening weeps over the When we were first acquent,

lea, Your locks were like the raven,

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary Your bonie brow was brent;

and me. But now your brow is beld, John,

Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow,

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it John Anderson, my jo.

glides,

And winds by the cot where my Mary John Anderson my jo, John,

resides; We clamb the hill thegither;

How wanton thy waters her snowy feet And monie a cantie day, John,

lave, We've had wi' ane anither:

As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy Now we maun totter down, John,

clear wave. And hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot,

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy John Anderson my jo.

green braes, FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my

lays; Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring green braes,

stream, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her praise;

BONIE DOON

But O! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early! Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, How can ye blume sae fair?

That wraps my Highland Mary!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care?

O pale, pale now, those rosy lip

i aft hae kissed sae fondly! Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, And closed for ay the sparkling glance, That sings upon the bough;

That dwalt on me sae kindly! Thou reminds me o' the happy days, And mouldering now in silent dust, When my fause luve was true.

That heart that lo'ed me dearly!

But still within my bosom's core Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird, Shall live my Highland Mary.

Thou sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

DUNCAN GRAY And wist na o' my fate.

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, Aft hae I roved by bonie Doon

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) To see the woodbine twine,

On blythe Yule night when we were fou, And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) And sae did I o' mine.

Maggie coost her head fu high,

Looked asklent and unco skeigh, Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose

Gart poor

Duncan stand abeigh;
Frae aff its thorny tree;

Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
And my fause luver staw my rose
But left the thorn wi' me.

Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed;

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) HIGHLAND MARY

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) YE banks, and braes, and streams around

Duncan sighed baith out and in, The castle o' Montgomery,

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',

a Green be your woods and fair your flowers, Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Your waters never drumlie!

Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
There simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;

Time and chance are but a tide,
For there I took the last fareweel,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) O' my sweet Highland Mary.

Slighted love is sair to bide,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,

“Shall I, like a fool,” quoth he, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, "For a haughty hizzie die? As underneath their fragrant shade

She may gae to France for me!”
I clasped her to my bosom!

Ha, ha, the wooin o't!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;

How it comes let doctors tell,
For dear to me as light and life,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Meg grew sick as he grew hale,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace Something in her bosom wrings, Our parting was fu' tender;

For relief a sigh she brings; And, pledging aft to meet again,

And O! her een, they spak sic things! We tore oursels asunder;

Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

a

Eternity will not efface

Till too, too soon the glowing west Those records dear of transports past, Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Thy image at our last embrace Ah! little thought we 't was our last! Still o'er these scenes

my mem'ry

wakes, Ayr, gurgling, kiss'd his pebbl’d shore, And fondly broods with miser care ! O’erhung with wild woods, thick’ning Time but th’ impression stronger makes, green ;

As streams their channels deeper wear. The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar My Mary, dear departed shade ! Twin'd amorous round the raptur'd Where is thy place of blissful rest? scene :

See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his The birds sang love on every spray,

SOME EIGHTEENTH CENTURY LETTERS

English literature is particularly rich in the number and excellence of its letter-writers. The eighteenth century was especially prolific in the variety as well as the quality of interesting letters written by the men and women who achieved distinction in that

The first novels, especially those of Richardson, partook largely of the epistolary form. Much of the material of the periodical essays of Addison, Steele, and Johnson was in the form of an imaginary correspondence and there were many who set down in their memoirs just such informal material as we find in the actual letter-writers of the period. It was a society-loving age, when people had the time and the inclination to write long and often and intimately of what was going on in the world about them. As much time was spent in the occupation, letters were carefully preserved and fortunately have been the source of much of our knowledge of the period.

“Letters ought to be nothing but extempore conversation on paper," wrote Horace Walpole to Lady Ossary. On the whole, these eighteenth century letters show little of the speculative brooding and dreaming of the romantic era but they reflect as truthfully what the representatives of the time were thinking and the affairs that held their attention.

The relations between Swift and Mrs. Esther Johnson, the Stella of his Journal, have been the despair of his biographers. To her and her companion, Mrs. Rebecca Dingley, Swift wrote regularly, giving a minute account of his life in London, his political and literary occupations, the gossip of the town, and his reflections on the leaders of the day. For the most part the letters were written at night when he came home to his lodgings.

“The 'little language' which Swift used when writing to Stella (Esther Johnson) was the language he employed when playing with her as a little child at Moor Park. It is marked chiefly by such changes of letters (e.g., l for n, or n for I) as a child makes when learning to speak. Swift is Presto, and Pdfr. sometimes Podefar (perhaps

. Poor dear foolish rogue). Stella is Ppt (Poor pretty thing). MD (my dears) usually

( stands for both Stella and Mrs. Dingley, but sometimes for Stella alone. Mrs. Dingley is indicated by ME (Madame Elderly). The letters FW may mean Farewell, or Foolish Wenches. Lele seems to be There, there, and sometimes truly." – G. A. AITKEN.

Horace Walpole is generally acknowledged as the prince of letter-writers. His letters were the chief work of his life, no other person has dealt with so great a variety of subjects. The first letter we possess was written when Walpole was fifteen years old (1732) and his letters continue for sixty years, the most complete edition containing a total of more than three thousand addressed to more than one hundred and fifty correspondents. Walpole studied letter-writing as an art, but he was at the same time a distinguished figure of his age. Consequently, this wonderful collection is a record not only of the author but of the most important men and events of the sixty years from 1732-1792.

Philip, fourth earl of Chesterfield, was one of the foremost English statesmen of his age and an unique personality in English literature. His letters to his son, according to Sainte-Beuve, the distinguished French critic, contained on every page some happy observation worthy of being kept in remembrance. He began writing