I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad to play the fool;
And a' the day to sit in dool,

And naebody to see me.

Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye 'se lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie.

If ye'll but stand to what ye 've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad;
And ye may row me in your plaid,

And I shall be your dearie.

While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
Ye aye shall be my dearie.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

[JANE ELLIOT. Born 1727; died 1805.]

I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting, before the dawn of day;

But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning1;
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

2

At bughts in the morning nae blythe lads are scorning3;

The lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae ;

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

In hairst, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters 5 are lyart, and runkled and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

VOL. III.

A loaning is a grass path through corn-fields for the use of the cattle. ⚫ sheep-pens. 3 teasing. 4 5 pail. men who bind up the sheaves.

• hoary.

7 coaxing.

K k

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie-
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae more lilting at our ewe-milking,
Women and bairns are heartless and wae ;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning,
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

LOGAN BRAES.

[JOHN MAYNE. Born 1759; died 1836.]

By Logan's streams that rin sae deep
Fu' aft, wi' glee, I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart! thae days are gane,
And fu' o' grief I herd alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Nae mair, at Logan kirk, will he,
Atween the preachings, meet wi' me-
Meet wi' me, or when it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.

I weel may sing thae days are gane-
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes!

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I dander dowie and forlane,
Or sit beneath the trysting-tree,
Where first he spak of love to me.

O! cou'd I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain;
Rever'd by friends, and far frae faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

FOR LACK OF GOLD.

[ADAM AUSTIN, M.D. Born 1726? died 1774.]

For lack of gold she's left me, 0,
And of all that's dear bereft me, O;
She me forsook for Athole's duke,

And to endless woe she has left me, O.
A star and garter have more art
Than youth, a true and faithful heart;
For empty titles we must part,

And for glittering show she's left me, O.

No cruel fair shall ever move
My injur❜d heart again to love;
Through distant climates I must rove;
Since Jeany she has left me, O.
Ye powers above, I to your care
Give up my faithless, lovely fair;
Your choicest blessings be her share,
Though she's for ever left me, O.

JOHNNIE COPE'.

[ADAM SKIRVING. Born 1719; died 1803.]
Cope sent a challenge frae Dunbar :-
Charlie, meet me an ye daur,

And I'll learn you the art o' war,
If you'll meet wi' me i' the mornin.

Hey, Johnnie Cope, are ye wauking yet?
Or are your drums a-beating yet?
If ye were wauking, I wad wait

To gang to the coals i̇' the morning.

1 The reader need hardly be reminded that Sir John Cope commanded the English forces at Preston l'ans, and was defeated by the Young Pretender.

When Charlie looked the letter upon,
He drew his sword the scabbard from:
Come follow me, my merry merry men,
And we'll meet Johnnie Cope in the morning.

Now, Johnnie, be as good's your word,
Come let us try both fire and sword;
And dinna flee away like a frighted bird,
That's chased from its nest in the morning.

When Johnnie Cope he heard of this,
He thought it wadna be amiss,
To ha'e a horse in readiness,

To flee awa' in the morning.

Fy now, Johnnie, get up and rin,
The Highland bagpipes mak' a din;
It is best to sleep in a hale skin,

For 'twill be bluidy in the morning.

When Johnnie Cope to Dunbar came,
They speer'd at him, Where's a' your men?
The deil confound me gin I ken,

For I left them a' i' the morning.

Now, Johnnie, troth ye are na blate1,
To come wi' the news o' your ain defeat,
And leave your men in sic a strait,
Sae early in the morning.

Oh! faith, quo' Johnnie, I got sic flegs2
Wi' their claymores and philabegs ;
If I face them again, deil break my legs...
So I wish you a' gude morning.

• fears.

1 shy.

ROBERT FERGUSSON.

[ROBERT FERGUSSON was born in Edinburgh 5th September, 1750. At the end of his Arts course at St. Andrew's he was forced by the death of his father and the poverty of his mother to accept a miserable post as lawyer's clerk, the monotonous drudgery of which he varied by the composition of his poems and by some slight excesses, which were fatal to his feeble constitution. Mania supervened upon illness, and he died in a lunatic asylum 16th October, 1774. His contributions to the Weekly Magazine, 1771, made him famous. His poems were collected in a small volume in 1773.]

Fergusson is an interesting figure in the literary history of his country as an instance of precocious poetical talent, and as a link between his predecessor Ramsay and his mightier successor Burns. His fame is indissolubly associated with that of Burns, not only because Burns erected a monument over his grave, and inscribed on it one of those rapturous eulogies which the mention of Fergusson's name always called forth from him, but still more because of the extraordinary flattery which Burns bestowed upon him by imitating him almost as often and as much as he surpassed him. Specimens of Burns' ''prentice hand' are preserved in the larger editions of his works. But they are few in number as well as of slender significance in regard to the possibilities of his genius. It was the reading of Fergusson's poems, he himself tells us, which moved him to resume his 'wildly sounding lyre,' when in his early manhood he had for a time laid it aside. The same influence which recalled him to the service of the Muses dictated to a surprising extent the choice and the treatment of his themes throughout his poetical career, and certainly during its most fertile period. So many of his bestknown pieces, like The Holy Fair, The Cotter's Saturday Night, his epistles and satires, bear obvious traces of having been suggested by his youthful predecessor's slender volume of song, that it is as if Burns, solitary genius in other respects, were solitary also in this respect-that his juvenilia were not written by his own hand, but by a poetical predecessor still more pre