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 bedewed,
Awake the early morning.

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

guards

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

That watched thy early morning.

TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, A VERY YOUNG

LADY,

WRITTEN ON THE BLANK-LEAF OF A BOOK PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR.

BEAUTEOUS Rose-bud, young and gay,
Blooming in thy early May,

Never mayst thou, lovely flower,
Chilly shrink in sleety shower;
Never Boreas' hoary path,

Never Eurus' poisonous breath,
Never baleful stellar lights,
Taint thee with untimely blights!
Never, never reptile thief
Riot on thy virgin leaf,

Nor even Sol too fiercely view
Thy bosom blushing still with dew!

Mayst thou long, sweet crimson gem,
Richly deck thy native stem :
Till some evening, sober, calm,
Dropping dews and breathing balm,
While all around the woodland rings,
And every bird thy requiem sings,
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound,

Shed thy dying honours round,
And resign to parent earth

The loveliest form she e'er gave birth.

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S

STORMS.

TUNE- Neil Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny.

The two following songs, in honor of Miss Margaret Chalmers, were designed for publication in the second volume of Johnson's Museum. Of the personal attractions of Miss Chalmers, it could at the utmost be said, as Burns did say, that they were above the medium. She was, however, a woman of spirit, talent, and boundless love of things literary.

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,
Astonished, doubly marks its beam,
With art's most polished blaze.

Blest be the wild, sequestered shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first surveyed,
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.

Mr 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 human kind.
I 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.

ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER.

SENT WITH A SILHOUETTE PORTRAIT.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,1

Of Stuart, a name once respected

A name which to love was the mark of a true heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Though something like moisture conglobes in my

eye,

Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

A poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wanderer were royal.

My fathers that name have revered on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry; Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine, Their title's avowed by my country.

1 Mr. Tytler had published, in 1759, An Inquiry, Historical and Critical, into the Evidence against Mary Queen of Scots.