OH, MALLY 'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET.

This stands the last of the communications to the "Museum." It is said to have been produced on seeing a young countrywoman with her shoes and stockings packed carefully up, and her petticoats kilted, which showed "Her straight bare legs, that whiter were than snaw.”

Он, Mally 's meek, Mally 's sweet,

Mally 's modest and discreet,
Mally's rare, Mally 's fair,

Mally's every way complete.
As I was walking up the street,
A barefit maid I chanced to meet;
But oh, the road was very hard.

For that fair maiden's tender feet.

It were mair meet that those fine feet
Were weel laced up in silken shoon;
And 'twere more fit that she should sit
Within yon chariot gilt aboon.

Her yellow hair, beyond compare,

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck;

And her two eyes, like stars in skies,

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.

Oh, Mally's meek, Mally 's sweet,

Mally 's modest and discreet,

Mally 's rare, Mally 's fair,

Mally 's every way complete.

ADDITIONAL

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES.

THE FAREWELL.

These beautiful and affecting stanzas were composed under great distress of mind, when his prospects in life were so gloomy, that his only hope for success seemed to be directed to obtaining a situation in the West Indies.

FAREWELL, old Scotia's bleak domains,
Far dearer than the torrid plains

Where rich ananas blow!
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear!
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear!
My Jean's heart-rending throe!
Farewell, my Bess! tho' thou 'rt bereft
Of my parental care;

A faithful brother I have left,
My part in him thou 'It share!
Adieu too, to you too,

My Smith, my bosom frien';
When kindly you mind me,

Oh then befriend my Jean!

What bursting anguish tears my heart!
From thee, my Jenny, must I part!
Thou weeping answerest no:
Alas! misfortune stares my face,
And points to ruin and disgrace,
I for thy sake must go!
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear,
A grateful, warm adieu!
I, with a much-indebted tear,
Shall still remember you!
All-hail then, the gale then,
Wafts me from thee, dear shore!

It rustles, and whistles,

I'll never see thee more!

WILLIE CHALMERS.1

Wi' braw new branks in mickle pride,
And eke a braw new brechan,
My Pegasus I'm got astride,

And up Parnassus pechin;

Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush,
The doited beastie stammers;
Then up he gets, and off he sets
For sake o' Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na, lass, that weel-kenn'd name
May cost a pair o' blushes;

I am nae stranger to your fame,
Nor his warm-urgéd wishes.
Your bonnie face sae mild and sweet,
His honest heart enamors,

And faith ye'll no be lost a whit,
Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers.

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye 're fair,
And Honor safely back her,
And Modesty assume your air,
And ne'er a ane mistak her:
And sic twa love-inspiring e'en
Might fire even holy Palmers;
Nae wonder then they 've fatal been
To honest Willie Chalmers.

I doubt na fortune may you shore
Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie,
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore,
And band upon his breastie:
But oh! what signifies to you
His lexicons and grammars;
The feeling heart's the royal blue,
An' that's wi' Willie Chalmers.

1 Mr. Lockhart has given the following account of this singular piece-ne copied it from a small collection of MSS. sent by Burns to Lady Harriet Don, accompanied with the following explanation:-" W. Chalmers, a gentleman in Ayrshire, a particular friend of mine, asked me to write a poetical epistle to a young lady, his Dulcinea. I had seen her, but was scarcely acquainted with her, and wrote as above."

Some gapin', glowrin' countra laird,
May warsle for your favor;

May claw his lug, and straik his beard,
And host up some palaver.

My bonnie maid, before ye wed
Sic clumsy-witted hammers,

Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp
Awa' wi' Willie Chalmers.

Forgive the Bard! my fond regard
For ane that shares my bosom,
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues,
For deil a hair I roose him.
May powers aboon unite you soon,
And fructify your amours,—
And every year come in mair dear
To you and Willie Chalmers.

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.1

HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
We never heed,

But take it like the unback'd filly,
Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
Some black bog-hole,

Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter

We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' this wild warl',

Until you on a crummock driddle,

A gray-hair'd carl.

This gentleman lived at Parkhouse, near Ayr, and was not only a firstrate performer on the violin, but a pleasant man, and not a little of a wit The original of this piece is now in the possession of David Auld, Esq., Ayr

Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon,
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune,
And screw your temper pins aboon

A fifth or mair,

The melancholious, lazie croon

O' cankrie care.

May still your life from day to day
Nae "lente largo" in the play,
But "allegretto forté" gay

Harmonious flow

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-
Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,

An' never think o' right an' wrang

By square an' rule,

But as the clegs o' feeling stang

Are wise or fool.

My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race,
Wha count on poortith as disgrace-

Their tuneless hearts!

May fireside discords jar a base

To a' their parts!

But come, your hand, my careless brither,
I' th' ither warl', if there's anither-
An' that there is I've little swither

About the matter

We cheek for chow shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonnie squad priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';

But still, but still, I like them dearly-
God bless them a'!

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching, cursed, delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,