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Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,

In ae constellation shine;
To adore thee is my duty,
Goddess o' this soul o' mine!

Bonie wee thing, &c.

THE TITHER MORN.

This tune is originally from the Highlands.-I have heard a Gaelic song to it, which I was told was very clever, but not by any means a lady's | song.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF

HER SON.

Tune-FINLAYSTON HOUSE.

This most beautiful tune is, I think, the happiest composition of that bard-born genius, John Riddel, of the family of Glencarnock, at Ayr. The words

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were composed to commemorate the much lamented, and premature death of James Ferguson, Esq. jun. of Craigdarroch.

Fate gave the word, the arrow sped,

And pierc'd my darling's heart;
And with him all the joys are fled

Life can to me impart.
By cruel hands the sapling drops,

In dust dishonour'd laid:
So fell the pride of all my hopes,

My age's future shade.

The mother linnet in the brake

Bewails her ravish'd young ;
So I, for my lost darling's sake,

Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,

Now, fond, I bare my breast,
O, do thou kindly lay me low,

With him I love, at rest!

DAINTJE DAVIE.

THIS
song,
tradition

says, and the composition itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David Williamson's getting the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were

searching her house to apprehend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and covenant.--The pious woman had put a lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bed-fellow.- A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in Herd's collection, but the original song consists of five or six stanzas, and were their delicacy. equal to their wit and humor, they would merit a place in any collection.— The first stanza is,

Being pursued by the dragoons,
Within

my

bed he was laid down;
And well I wat he was worth his room,

For he was my daintie Davie.

Ramsay's song, Lackie Nansie, though he calls it an old song with additions, seems to be all his own, ercept the chorus, which I should conjecture to be part of a song, prior to the affair of Williamson.*

* The Editor has been honoured with the following communi. cation respecting this song from Lord Woodhouselee.

“I have reason to believe that no part of the words of this song was written by Ramsay. I have been informed by good authority, that the words, as printed in Ramsay's Collection, were written by the Hon. Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court of Session. The words of another Scots air, which have much merit, Mary may the Maid be that marries the Miller,' were written by Sir John Clerk, of Pennicuik, Baron of Exchequer in Scotland.”

LUCKY NANSIE.

While fops in soft Italian verse,

Ilk fair ane's een and breast rehearse,
While sangs abound and scene is scarce,

These lines I have indited :
But neither darts nor arrows here,

Venus nor Cupid shall appear,
And yet with these fine sounds I

swear,
The maidens are delited.

I was ay telling you
Lucky Nansy, Lucky Nansy,
Auld springs wad ding the new,
But
ye

wad never trow me.

Nor snaw with crimson will I mix,
To spread upon my lassie's cheeks;
And syne th' unmeaning name prefix,

Miranda, Chloe, or Phillis.
I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove,
My height of extasy to prove,
Nor sighing,-thus-present my love
With roses eke and lilies.

I was ay telling you, &c.

But stay,--I had amaist forgot
My mistress and my sang to boot,
And that's an unco' faut I wate :

But Nansy, 'tis nae matter,
Ye see I clink my verse wi' rhime,
And ken ye, that atones the crime ;
Forby, how sweet my numbers chime,
And slide away like water.

I was ay telling you, &c.

Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair,
Thy runkled cheeks and lyart hair,
Thy haff shut een and hodling air,

Are a' my passion's fewel.
Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see,
Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee;
Yet thou hast charms anew for me,
Then smile, and be na cruel.

Leez me on thy snawy pow,
Lucky Nansy, Lucky Nansy,
Dryest wood will eithest low,
And Nansy sae will ye now.

Troth I have sung the sang to you,
Which ne'er anither bard wad do;

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