TO MARY.

COULD aught of song declare my pains,
Could artful numbers move thee,
The Muse should tell, in labour'd strains,
O Mary, how I love thee!

They who but feign a wounded heart
May teach the lyre to languish;
But what avails the pride of art,
When wastes the soul with anguish?

Then let the sudden bursting sigh
The heart-felt pang discover;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,
O read the imploring lover.

For well I know thy gentle mind
Disdains art's gay disguising;
Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd,
The voice of nature prizing.

O LEAVE NOVELS.

;

O LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel,
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part,—
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

The frank address, the soft caress,
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel;

The frank address, and politesse,
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

ADDRESS TO GENERAL DUMOURIER.

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR.1

YOU'RE Welcome to despots, Dumourier;
You're welcome to despots, Dumourier;
How does Dampiere do ?

Aye, and Bournonville too?

Why did they not come along with

you,

Dumourier ?

I will fight France with you, Dumourier;
I will fight France with you, Dumourier ;
I will fight France with you;
I will take my chance with you;
By my soul I'll dance a dance with

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about, Dumourier;
Then let us fight about,

Till freedom's spark is out,

you,

Dumourier.

Then we'll be d―d, no doubt, Dumourier.

SWEETEST MAY.

SWEETEST May, let love inspire thee;
Take a heart which he designs thee;
As thy constant slave regard it;
For its faith and truth reward it.
Proof o' shot to birth or money,
Not the wealthy, but the bonnie;
Not high-born, but noble-minded,
In love's silken band can bind it!

ONE NIGHT AS I DID WANDER.

TUNE-" JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO."

ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree-root:

1 "Robin Adair" begins, "You're welcome to Paxton, Robin Adair."

THE winter it is past, and the simmer's come at last,
And the little birds sing on every tree;

Now everything is glad, while I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier, by the waters running clear,
May have charms for the linnet or the bee;

Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest,
But my true love is parted from me.

FRAGMENT.

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wet wi' dew!
O, what a feast her bonnie mou!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner!

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.2

TUNE-" CAPTAIN OʻKEAN."

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:

1 Gilbert Burns denied his brother's authorship of this fragment, which, in early boyhood, he had heard their mother sing.

2 These admirable stanzas are supposed to be spoken by the young Prince Charles Edward, when wandering in the Highlands of Scotland, after his fatal defeat at Culloden.-Thomson.

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice,
A King, or a Father, to place on his throne?

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn ;
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn :
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.

TUNE-"BONNIE DUNDEE."

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,
The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a',
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess,
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a':

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw : There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a’.

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA.

HERE'S a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

And wha winna wish guid luck to our cause,

May never guid luck be their fa'!

Its guid to be merry and wise,

Its guid to be honest and true,

It's guid to support Caledonia's cause,

And bide by the buff and the blue.

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's a health to Charlie' the chief o' the clan,
Altho' that his band be sma'.

1 Charles Fox.

May liberty meet wi' success!

May prudence protect her frae evil!

May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,
And wander their way to the Devil!

Here's a health to them that's awa,

Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's a health to Tammie,' the Norland laddie,

That lives at the lug o' the law!

Here's freedom to him that wad read,

Here's freedom to him that wad write!

[heard

There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should be
But they wham the truth wad indite.
Here's a health to them that's awa,
Here's a health to them that's awa;

Here's Chieftain M'Leod,' a chieftain worth gowd,
Tho' bred amang mountains o' snaw!

DAMON AND SYLVIA.

TUNE-"THE TITHER MORN, as I forlorn."
YON wand'ring rill, that marks the hill,
And glances o'er the brae, Sir,
Slides by a bower where monie a flower
Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir.
There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay:
To love they thought nae crime, Sir;
The wild-birds sang, the echoes rang,
While Damon's heart beat time, Sir.

MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T.

CHORUS.

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't;
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet,

My lord thinks muckle mair upon't.

My lord a-hunting he is gane,

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane,
By Colin's cottage lies his game,
If Colin's Jenny be at hame.

My lady's gown, &c.

1 Thomas Erskine.

2 M'Leod, chief of that clan.