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And kiss'd and clap'd her there fu' lang,

My words they were na monie feck. I said, My lassie, will ye gang

To the Highland hills, some Earse to learn ? And I'll gie thee baith cow and ewe,

When ye come to the brig of Earn. At Leith auld meal comes in, ne'er fash,

And herrings at the Broomielaw;
Cheer up your heart, my bonnie lass,

There's gear to win we never saw.
A' day when we hae wrought enough,

When winter frosts and snaws begin,
Soon as the sun gaes west the loch,

At night when ye sit down to spin, I'll screw my pipes, and play a spring;

And thus the wearie night we'll end,
Till the tender kid and lamb-time bring

Our pleasant simmer back again,
Syne when the trees are in their bloom,

And gowans glent o'er ilka field,
I'll meet my
lass amang

the broom, And lead her to my simmer bield. There, far frae a' their scornfu' din,

That mak the kindly heart their sport, We'll laugh, and kiss, and dance, and sing,

And gar the langest day seem short.


Up amang yon cliffy rocks,
Sweetly rings the rising echo,
To the maid that tends the goats,
Lilting o'er her native notes.
Hark, she sings, Young Sandy's kind,
And he's promis’d ay to loo me;

Here's a brotch I ne'er shall tine,
Till he's fairly married to me:
Drive awa, ye drone, time,
And bring about our bridal day.
Sandy herds a flock oʻsheep;
Aften does he blaw the whistle
In a strnin sae saftly sweet,
Lammies list’ning darena bleat.
He's as fleet's the mountain roe,
Hardy as the Highland heather,
Wading through the winter snow,
Keeping ay his flock thegither :
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,
He braves the bleakest nor'lan blast.
Brawly can he dance and sing,
Cantie glee, or Highland cronach;
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel, or round a ring.
Wightly can he weild a rung;
In a brawl he's ay the bangster:
A' his praise can ne'er be sung
By the langest winded sangster.
Sangs, that sing o' Sandy,
Seem short, tho they were e'er sae lang.

THE FLOWER OF YARROW. In ancient times, as songs rehearse, One charming nymph employed each verse, She reign’d alone without a marrow, Mary Scot, the flower of Yarrow. Our fathers with such beauty fir'd, This matchless fair in crowds admir'd: Though matchless then, yet here's her marrow, Mary Scot's the flower of Yarrow.

Whose beauty, unadorn’d by art,
With virtue join'd, attracts each heart;
Her negligence itself would charm you,
She scarcely knows her power to warm you.
For ever cease Italian noise;
Let every string and every voice
Sing Mary Scot without a marrow,
Mary Scot, the flower of Yarrow. *

“ Mr. ROBERTSON, in his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, says, that Many Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, was descended from the Dryhope, and married into the Harden family. Her daughter was married to a predecessor of the present Sir FRANCIS ELLIOT, of Stobbs, and of the late Lord Heathfield. There is a circumstance in their contract of marriage that merits attention, as it strongly marks the predatory spirit of the times. The father-in-law agrees to keep his daughter for some time af. ter the marriage; for which the son-in-law binds himself to give him the profits of the first Michaelmas moon, that' is, the time when the moss-troopers and cattle-drivers on the borders began their nightly depredations.” A very interesting account of the Flower of Yarrow, appears in a note to Mr. Scott's Marmion, which we take the liberty of adding to the above.

“ Near the lower extremity of St. Mary's Lake, (a beautiful sheet of water, forming the reservoir from which the Yarrow takes its source) are the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth-place of Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, and famons by the traditional name of the Flower of Yarrow. She was married to WALTER Scott of Harden, no less renowned for his depredations, than his bride for her beauty. Her romantic appellation was, in latter days, with equal justice conferred on Miss Mary Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the Harden family.” Mr. Scott proceeds to relate, that “ he well remembers the talent and spirit of the latter Flower of Yarrow, though age had then injured the charms which procured her the name; and that the words usually sung to the air of Tweede side,' beginning—What beauties does Flora disclose, were composed in her honour.”

I HAE LOST MY JEANIE, O. TUNE" Lady Cunningham's Delight,or, “ the Lee Rigg.”

0 I hae seen when fields were green,

And birds sae blythe an' cheerie, 0,
How swift the day wad pass away,

When I was wi' my dearie, O:
But now I neither laugh nor sing,

My looks are alter'd cleanlie, 0;
I'll never like a lass again,

Since I hae lost my Jeanie, O.
Now I maun grane an' greet my lane,

An' never ane to heed me, 0;
My claes, that ay were neat an' clean,

Can scarce be said to cleed me, 0 :
My heart is sair, my elbows bare,

My pouch without a guinea, 0;
I'll never taste o pleasure mair,

Since I hae lost my Jeanie, O.
Ó, Fortune! thou hast us’d me ill;

Far waur than my deservin', 0;
Thrice o'er the crown thou'st knock'd me down,

An' left me haflins starvin', 0:
Thy roughest blast has blawn the last;

My lass has us'd me meanlie, 0;
Thy sharpest dart has pierc'd my heart,

Ån' ta'en frae me my Jeanie, O.
I'll nae mair strive, while I'm alive,

For aught but missin' slavery, O;
This world's a stage, a pilgrimage,

A mass o'nought but knav'ry, O:
If fickle fame but save my name,

An' frae oblivion screen me, 0;
Then farewell tortune, farewell love,

An' farewell bonnie Jeanie, O.

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TUNE_" The Burnside.O HAPPY, happy were the days o' auld langsyne, The hamely sweets, the social joys o' auld langsyne, When ilka ane wi' friendly glow and cordial heart wad

join, To pledge wi’ frien’ship leal and true the days o’langsyne.

When ilka ane, &c. How fled the joys that we hae seen, o' auld langsyne, When happy aft we baith hae been, in days o' langsyne: Still ilka former tender scene, wi' dear delight we min', But'a' alas ! ean ne'er reca’ the days o' langsyne.

Still ilka former, &c. How sweet the fond endearing charms o' auld langsyne, Wi' Jeanie in my youthfu' arms, in days o' langsyne; In rapture press'd her throbbing breast wi' glowing love

to mine, Thae happy hours flew o'er wi' bliss in days o’langsyne.

In rapture press'd, &c. Amang our native woods an' braes how pleasant the

time, To pu' for her I loo'd sae dear the primrose in its prime: Then fairer bloom'd ilk bonnie flower, mair sweet the

birds did sing, When wi' the lass I dearly loo’d, in days o’ langsyne.

Then fairer bloom'd, &c. Nae mair amang our bonnie glens we'll garlands entwine, Nor pu' the wild-flow'r by the burn, to busk my

lassie fine; Nae mair upon yon sunnie knowe we'll mark the sun

decline, Nor tell the tender tales that pleas’d in days o' langsyne. Nae mair upon, &c.


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