He levell'd his rays where the bask'd on the brae

His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where

the lay.

I red, &c.

;

They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill, The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill But still as the fairest she fat in their fight, Then, whirr! fhe was over, a mile at a flight.

I red, &c.

WHY, WHY TELL THY LOVER.

Tune. "THE CALEDONIAN HUNT'S DELIGHT."

W

HY, why tell thy lover,

Bliss he never must enjoy?

Why, why undeceive him,

And give all his hopes the lie?

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, flumbers,

Chloris, Chloris all the theme!

Why, why wouldst thou, cruel,
Wake thy lover from his dream?

LINES ON A PLOUGHMAN.

SI was a wand'ring ae morning in

A fpring,

I heard a young Ploughman fae fweetly to fing; And as he was fingin' thir words he did say, There's nae life like the Ploughman in the month o' sweet May.—

The lav'rock in the morning fhe'll rise frae her

neft,

And mount to the air wi' the dew on her

breast ;

And wi' the merry Ploughman she'll whistle

and fing,

And at night she'll return to her neft back

again.

THE FETE CHAMPETRE.

Tune.-"KILLICRANKIE."

WHA will to Saint Stephen's house, To do our errands there, man? O wha will to Saint Stephen's house,

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man?
Or will we send a man-o'-law?

Or will we send a fodger?
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a'
The meikle Urfa-Major?

Come, will ye court a noble lord,
Or buy a score o' lairds, man?
For worth and honour pawn their word,
Their vote fhall be Glencaird's, man?
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine,
Anither gies them clatter;

Anbank, wha guefs'd the ladies' tafte,
He gies a Fête Champetre.

W w

When Love and Beauty heard the news,
The gay-green woods, amang, man;
Where, gathering flowers and busking bowers,
They heard the blackbird's fang, man;
A vow, they feal'd it with a kifs

Sir Politics to fetter,

As theirs alone, the patent-blifs,
To hold a Fête Champetre.

Then mounted Mirth on gleefome wing,
O'er hill and dale fhe flew, man;
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk chrystal spring,
Ilk glen and shaw the knew, man:
She fummon'd every social sprite,
That sports by wood or water,
On the bonie banks of Ayr to meet,
And keep this Fête Champetre.

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boifterous crew,
Were bound to ftakes like kye, man;

And Cynthia's car, o' filver fu',

Clamb up the ftarry sky, man:
Reflected beams dwell in the streams,
Or down the current shatter;

The western breeze fteals thro' the trees,
To view this Fête Champetre.

How many a robe fae gaily floats!
What sparkling jewels glance, man!
To Harmony's enchanting notes,

As moves the mazy dance, man.
The echoing wood, the winding flood,
Like Paradife did glitter,

When angels met, at Adam's yett,
To hold their Fête Champetre.

When Politics came there, to mix
And make his ether-ftane, man!
He circled round the magic ground,
But entrance found he nane, man :
He blush'd for shame, he quat his name,
Forfwore it, every letter,

Wi' humble prayer to join and share
This feftive Fête Champetre.