But I'll big a bower on yon bonny banks,
Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear;
And I'll cleed thee in the tartan sae fine,
And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear.

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER.

Tune-"Maggy Lauder."

I MARRIED with a scolding wife,
The fourteenth of November;
She made me weary of my life
By one unruly member.
Long did I bear the heavy yoke,
And many griefs attended;
But, to my comfort be it spoke,
Now, now her life is ended.

We lived full one-and-twenty years
As man and wife together;

At length from me her course she steer'd,
And's gone I know not whither :
Would I could guess, I do profess!

I speak, and do not flatter,

Of all the women in the world,
I never could come at her.

Her body is bestowed well,

A handsome grave does hide her;

But sure her soul is not in hell,

The deil could ne'er abide her.

I rather think she is aloft,

And imitating thunder;

For why, methinks I hear her voice
Tearing the clouds asunder.

A ROSEBUD BY MY EARLY WALK.

Tune-"The Rosebud."

THE heroine of the following song was Miss Cruikshank, daughter of the poet's friend, Mr. Cruikshank, 30 St. James' Square, Edinburgh. A poem addressed to her will be found at page 143.

A ROSEBUD by my early walk,
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk,1

1 An open space in a cornfield.

Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.

Within the bush, her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest,
The dew sat chilly on her breast
Sae early in the morning.

She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awake the early morning.

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair!
On trembling string, or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care

That tends thy early morning.
So thou, sweet rosebud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray

That watch'd thy early morning.

BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S STORMS.

Tune-"Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny."

THE two following songs were written in praise of Miss Margaret Chalmers, a relative of the poet's friend, Mr. Gavin Hamilton.

WHERE, braving angry Winter's storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,

Far in their shade my Peggy's charms
First blest my wondering eyes;
As one who by some savage stream
A lonely gem surveys,

Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam,

With art's most polish'd blaze.

Blest be the wild sequester'd shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,
When first I felt their power!

The tyrant Death, with grim control,

May seize my fleeting breath;

But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.

MY PEGGY'S FACE.

Tune-"My Peggy's Face."

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of humankind.
love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly, heavenly fair,
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye;
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look, that rage disarms-
These are all immortal charms.

THE BANKS OF THE DEVON.

Tune-" Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh."

"

* THESE Verses," says Burns, in his notes in the Musical Museum, were composed on a charming girl, Miss Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to James M. Adair, physician. She is sister to my worthy friend, Gavin Hamilton of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of the Ayr; but was, at the time I wrote these lines, residing at Harvieston, in Clackmannanshire, on the romantic banks of the little river Devon."

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon,
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet-blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn, as it bathes in the dew!
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,

That steals on the evening each leaf to renew

Oh, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing, as ye usher the dawn!
And far be thou distant, thou reptile, that seizes
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies,

And England, triumphant, display her proud rose :
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys

Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.

Tune-"M'Pherson's Rant."

THE following was designed by the poet as an improvement on a well-known old song entitled, "Macpherson's Lament." The following account of Macpherson is from Mr. Chambers's edition of the poet's works:-"James Macpherson was a noted Highland freebooter of uncommon personal strength, and an excellent performer on the violin. After holding the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray in fear for some years, he was seized by Duff of Braco, ancestor of the Earl of Fife, and tried before the sheriff of Banffshire, (November 7, 1700,) along with certain gipsies who had been taken in his company. In the prison, while he lay under sentence of death, he composed a song and an appropriate air, the former commencing thus:

'I've spent my time in rioting,

Debauch'd my health and strength;

I squander'd fast as pillage came,
And fell to shame at length.

But dantonly, and wantonly,
And rantingly I'll gae ;

I'll play a tune, and dance it roun'
Beneath the gallows-tree.'

When brought to the place of execution, on the Gallows-hill of Banff, (Nov. 16,) he played the tune on his violin, and then asked if any friend was present who would accept the instrument as a gift at his hands. No one coming for ward, he indignantly broke the violin on his knee, and threw away the fragments; after which he submitted to his fate. The traditionary accounts of Macpherson's immense prowess are justified by his sword, which is still preserved in Duff House, at Banff, and is an implement of great length and weight -as well as by his bones, which were found a few years ago, and were allowed by all who saw them to be much stronger than the bones of ordinary men.”

FAREWELL, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!
Macpherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and danced it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

Oh! what is death but parting breath?—

On mony a bloody plain

I've dared his face, and in this place

I scorn him yet again!

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword!

And there's no a man in all Scotland
But I'll brave him at a word.

I've lived a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie :

It burns my heart I must depart
And not avenged be.

Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright,

And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame distain his name,

The wretch that dares not die !

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD.

OH, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mother should baith gae mad,
Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me;
Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me;
Come down the back stairs and let naebody see,
And come as ye werena coming to me.

STAY, MY CHARMER.

Tune-"An Gille dubh ciar dhubh."

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!

Well you know how much you grieve me;
Cruel charmer, can you go?
Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill requited;
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;
Do not, do not leave me so !
Do not. do not leave me so !

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

THE Strathallan of the following lines was William, fourth Viscount of the name, who fell at Culloden in 1746. The poet, misinformed in this particular, imagines him to have escaped to some secure place after the battle.

THICKEST night, o'erhang my dwelling!

Howling tempests, o'er me rave!

Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave!