THE HIGHLAND LASSIE.

THE Lawland maids gang trig and fine,
But aft they're sour and unco saucy;
Sae proud, they never can be kind,
Like my good-humor'd Highland lassie.
O my bonnie Highland lassie,

My hearty, smiling Highland lassie;
May never care mak thee less fair,

But bloom of youth still bless my lassie.

Than ony lass in burrow-town,

Wha mak their cheeks wi' patches mottie,
I'd take my Katie, but a gown,
Bare-footed in her little coatie.

O my bonnie, &c.

Beneath the brier or birken bush,
Whene'er I kiss and court my dawtie,
Happy and blythe as ane wad wish,
My flighterin' heart gangs pittie pattie.
O my bonnie, &c.

O'er highest heathery hills I'll stend,
Wi' cockit gun and ratches tenty,
To drive the deer out o' their den,
To feast my lass on dishes dainty.
O my bonnie, &c.

There's nane shall dare, by deed or word,
'Gainst her to wag a tongue or finger,
While I can weild my trusty sword,
Or frae my side whisk out a whinger.
O my bonnie, &c.

The mountains clad with purple bloom,
And berries ripe, invite my treasure
To range with me; let great fouk gloom,
While wealth and pride confound their pleasure.
O my bonnie, &c.

MEG O' THE MILL.

TUNE-"O bonnie lass will ye lie in a barrack?" O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley miller. The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady: The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl: She's left the guid fellow, and ta'en the churl. The miller he hecht her, a heart leal and loving: The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving; A fine pacing horse, wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailin'! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

THE LEA RIG.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star,
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrowed field
Return sae dowf and wearie, O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie, O,
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie, O.

Although the night were ne'er sae wild,
And I were ne'er sae wearie, O,

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie, O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo.
Gie me the hour o' gloamin grey,
It makes my heart sae cheerie, O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie, O.

THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN.
TUNE-" Auld langsyne."

WHEN silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trode on thirty years,
My native lan' I sought again,
Wi' monie hopes and fears.
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left
Will still continue mine,
Or gin I e'er again shall meet
The joys I left langsyne?

As I drew near my ancient pile,
My heart beat a' the way;
Ilk place I pass'd seem'd yet to speak
Of some dear former day:
Those days that follow'd me afar,
Those happy days o' mine,
Which made me think the joys at hand
Were naething to langsyne.

My ivy'd tow'rs now met my view,
Where minstrels us'd to blaw;
Nae frien' stept forth wi' open arms,
Nae weel-ken'd face I saw,
Till Donald totter'd to the door,
Whom I left in his prime,

And grat to see the lad come back,
He bore about langsyne.

I ran through ilka weel kent room,
In hopes to meet friends there;
I saw where ilk' ane us'd to sit,
And hang o'er ilka chair.
Till saft oblivion drew her veil
Across these een o' mine,

I steek'd the door, and sabb'd aloud,
As I thought o' langsyne.

A new sprung race o' motley kind,
Would now their welcome pay,
Wha shudder'd at my gothic wa's,
And wish'd my groves away.
Cut, cut, they cried, yon gloomy trees;
Lay low yon mournfu' pine!

Ah no! your fathers' names grow there-
Memorials o' langsyne.

MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY FASHION.
TUNE-"Deil tak the wars."

MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion,
Round the wealthy, titled bride;
But when compar'd with real passion,
Poor is all that princely pride.
What are the showy treasures?
What are the noisy pleasures?

The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art.
The polish'd jewel's blaze

May draw the wond'ring gaze,

And courtly grandeur bright

The fancy may delight,

But never, never can come near the heart.

But did you see my dearest Chloris,
In simplicity's array;

Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower is,
Shrinking from the gaze of day.

O then the heart alarming,
And all resistless charming,

In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing
soul!

Ambition would disown

The world's imperial crown,
Even Avarice would deny
His worshipp'd deity,

And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll. *

*This song was composed on the lady who is celebrated in Craigieburn Wood, to whom BURNS assures us we have been indebted for many of his best songs. In a letter to Mr. THOMSON, he says, "do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence, could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy-could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no!-Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song; to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs; do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? Tout au contraire! I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in the regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus; and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!" The following is the original of this song, and is undoubtedly the best.

Sleeps't thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature;

Rosy morn now lifts his eye,

Numbering ilka bud, which Nature

Waters wi' the tear o' joy.

Now thro' the leafy woods,

And by the reeking floods,

Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray.

The lintwhite in his bower

Chants o'er the breathing flower;

The lav'rock to the sky

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy,

While the sun and thou arise to bless the day.

Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning,

Banishes ilk darksome shade,