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But, whisht, nae mair o' this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,

I trow he likes the gawkie.
“O dear Bess, I hardly knew,
“ When I came by your gown sae new;
“I think you've got it wet wi' dew.”

Quoth she, 'that's like a gawkie;
It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane;
Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,

* And tell it to your dawtie.'
The guilt appeared in Jamie's cheek;
He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet,
“ If I should gang anither gate,

“ I ne'er could meet my dawtie.”
The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left


Jamie sair to rue,
That ever Maggie's face he knew,

Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.
As they gade owre the muir they sang,
The hills and dales wi' echo rang,
The hills and dales wi' echo rang,

Gang o'er the muir to Maggie,'

It is not exactly known who composed either the words or the Music of Bess the Gawkie. “ The Song shows,” however, BURNS observes, “ that the Scottish Muses did not all leave us when we lost RAMSAY and OSWALD, as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both posterior to the days of these two Gentlemen. It is a beautiful song, and in the genuine Scottish taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this.” Oswald, who was a Music-seller in London, published a large collection of Scottish tunes called the Caledonian's Pocket Companion, and was likewise celebrated both as a composer and performer of Scottish music.

TUNE" Gloomy Winter's now awa.
TRILLING Harp, come let us sing,
Come let me brace ilk gowden string,
And warble owre some bonnie spring,

In praise o' my sweet Mary, 0.
The lay along let sweetly move,
Freely let the love-notes rove,
Peerless, yea, resound my love,

My blythe, my bonnie Mary, 0.
For ó she's handsome, sweet, and fair,
Blooming, sprightly, mild, and rare;
Ne'er shall maid wi' her compare,

My blythe, my darling Mary, 0.

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Tho' Burns divine, in rapture keen,
Sang sweetly o’ his “ Bonnie Jean,"
She scarcely e'er in shape or mien,

Could match my bonnie Mary, 0.
Tho' TANNAHILL, in numbers fain,
Extoll'd his Jessie o' Dumblane,
And tho' her praises charm ilk swain,

Excell'd she's now by Mary, 0.
O had thae twa sweet Bards but seen
This blooming maid o' bonnie mien,
They'd tan'd their heav'nly lyres I ween,

And peerless made my Mary, 0. Ye pow'rs aboon, O guard frae harms The maid whase smile my bosom warms, And lang endow'd wi' rowth o'charms,

Let bloom my bonnie Mary, 0. O guide her thro' this dreary vale, O sorrow, trouble, woe, and wail, And heav'n-ward when she

entail Eternal bliss on Mary, 0.


For O she's handsome, sweet, and fair,
Blooming, sprightly, mild, and rare;
Ne'er shall maid wi' her compare,

My blythe, my darling Mary, o. *

The Lawland lads think they are fine,

But O! they're vain and idly gaudy;
How much unlike the gracefu' mien,
And manly looks of my Highland laddie.

O my bonnie Highland laddie,
My handsome, charming Highland laddie ;
May heaven still guard, and love reward,

The Lawland lass and her Highland laddie.
If I were free at will to choose,

To be the wealthiest Lawland lady,
I'd tak young Donald without trews,
With bonnet blue and belted plaidie.

O my bonnie, 8c.
The brawest beau in burrows town,

In a' his airs, wi' art made ready,
Compar'd to him, he's but a clown,
He's finer far in's tartan plaidie.

O my bonnie, fc.
O’er benty hill wi' him I'll run,

And leave my Lawland kin and daddie;
Frae winter's cauld, and simmer's sun,
He'll screen me wi' his Highland plaidie.

O my bonnie, 8c.

* This piece, by no means unworthy of some of our best Bards, is by the author of the “ Banks of Glaizart."

A painted room, and silken bed,

May please a Lawland laird and lady;
But I can kiss, and be as glad,
Behind a bush, in's Highland plaidie.

O my bonnie, &c.
Few compliments between us pass;

I ca' him my dear Highland laddie,
And he ca's me his Lawland lass,
Syne rows me in beneath his plaidie.

O my bonnie, &c.
Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend,

Than that his love prove true and steady
Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end,
While heav'n preserves my Highland laddie.

O my bonnie, &c. *


TUNE" Erin go Bragh." CALEDONIA, my country, thy rivers and fountains,

And green fertile vallies, exulting I sing:

Since the foolish and fruitless attempts of the Stewart family to regain possession of the British throne,-their right to which had been declared null by the voice of the nation, in consequence of their frequent violations of the public law, and subsequent voluntary abandonment of the country,--the Highland Laddie has been a favourite theme with the Scottish Muses. Accordingly there have been several songs, as well as tunes, of this name, all of them more or less tinged with Jacobitism; but, except the one here given, and another of later date to a different tune, which will appear afterwards, none of them, perhaps, possess merit enough to render them worthy of a lasting celebrity.

How pleasant thy sweet blooming moorlands and moun.

tains, When dressed in the gaudy profusion of spring; When fann'd by the soft summer sea breeze thy shore is; When flocks bleat around us, and woods pour

their chorus; And mild morning beams gild the landscape before us, All sparkling with dew-drops—How charming the

scene! Healthy thy clime is, of mild temperature,

Remote from the rage of the polar extremes, And distant from regions where languishing Nature

Melts in the blaze of the sun's torrid beams. Happy land! where no raging volcanoes are roaring; Where no serpents hiss, no fell monster devouring; No clouds stored with death in thy horizon low'ring;

Nor pestilence floats on thy wind's breezy wing. While, daring and prudent, thy sons fill their stations;

Scarce equalled in Arts, and unrivalled in arms; For learning, thy fame resounds through the Nations;

And peerless, thy daughters, in virtue and charms. From times unrecorded thy freedom descended, Through ages of heroes, whose broad sword defended Thy Charters—while foes saw their vengeance expended

Against thy wild mountains and borders in vain. Be plenty, my country, and peace thy possession,

And freedom's bright sun-beams illume thy clear day; And far from thy shores be all want and oppression;

While virtue's bold streams sweep corruption away. May friendship unite, and may love, and affection, And reason, thy children exalt to perfection: To guard thy lov'd shores, be thy strength and protec

tion, While time rolls his ages unnumber'd away.

This song is the production of Mr. Thomas Smith, weaver in Calton of Glasgow. It is a piece of considerable poetical merit, and does great honour to the talents of the author.

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