But ruin sittin' on thy wa's,
And crumblin' down the stanes.
O, mourn the woe, etc..

Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow,
Though sleepin' was the sun;
But mornin's light did sadly show,
What ragin' flames had done.
O, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud,
That hung o'er thy wild wood!
Thou wert like beauty in a shroud,

And all was solitude.

O, mourn the woe, O, mourn the crime,
Frae civil war that flows;

O, mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,

And mourn the great Montrose.

Carolina, Baroness Nairne.

0,

Castlecary.

MARY OF CASTLECARY.

SAW ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? Saw ye my true-love, down on yon lea? Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin'? Sought she the burnie whare flowers the haw-tree? Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white; Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?"

"I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true-love, down on yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin',
Down by the burnie whare flowers the haw-tree.
Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me!"

"It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing, It was na my true-love, ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart, modest her nature;

She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee: Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee."

"It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castlecary; It was, then, your true-love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,

Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew; Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling c'e, "Ye's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning;

Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly you lee."

"Awa' wi' beguiling," cried the youth, smiling. Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the lo'ed maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing? is it my ain thing?

Is it my true-love here that I see?"

‘O Jamie, forgi’e me! your heart's constant to me; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!" Hector Macneill.

Castle-Gordon.

CASTLE-GORDON.

TREAMS that glide in Orient plains,

STRE

Never bound by winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commixed with foulest stains,

From tyranny's empurpled bands;
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,

Shading from the burning ray

Helpless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil;

Woods that ever verdant wave,

I leave the tyrant and the slave;
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle-Gordon.

Wildly here, without control,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober, pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood.
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wildwoods wave,
By bonny Castle-Gordon.

Robert Burns.

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.

OUD blaw the frosty breezes,

The snaws the mountains cover;

Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young Highland Rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May Heaven be his warden, Return him safe to fair Strathspey And bonny Castle-Gordon!

The trees now naked groaning

Soon shall wi' leaves be hinging,

The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a' be blithely singing,

And every flower be springing.
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty warden

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey,

And bonny Castle-Gordon.

Robert Burns.

Cayla, the River.

THE RIVER CAYLA.

CAYLA, or Cayle-Water, is one of the branches of the river Teviot.

AYLA! like voice of years gone by,

CAYLA!

I hear thy mountain melody:

It comes with long-forgotten dreams
Once cherished by thy wizard streams;
And sings of school-boy rambles free,
And heart-felt young hilarity!

I see the mouldering turrets hoar
Dim-gleaming on thy woodland shore,
Where oft, afar from vulgar eye,
I loved at summer tide to lie;
Abandoned to the witching sway
Of some old bard's heroic lay;
Or poring o'er the immortal story
Of Roman and of Grecian glory.