LINES ON A PLOUGHMAN.

As I was a wand'ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young Ploughman sae sweetly to sing,
And as he was singin' thir words he did say,

There's nae life like the Ploughman in the month o sweet May.—

The lav'rock in the morning she 'll rise frac her nest, And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast,* And wi' the merry Ploughman she 'll whistle and sing, And at night she 'll return to her nest back again.

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN.

I'll ay ca' in by yon town,

And by yon garden green, again;

I'll ay ca' in by yon town,

And see my bonie Jean again.

There's nane sall ken, there's nane sall guess,
What brings me back the gate again,
But she my fairest faithfu' lass,

And stownlin'st we sall meet again.

*It is pleasing to mark those touches of sympathy which shew the sons of genius to be of one kindred. In the following passage from the poem of his countryman, the same figure is illustrated with characteristic simplicity; and never were the tender and the sublime of poetry more happily united, nor a more affectionate tribute paid to the memory of Burns.

“Thou, simple bird,

"Of all the vocal quire, dwell'st in a home
"The humblest; yet thy morning song ascends
"Nearest to Heaven;-sweet emblem of his song,†
"Who sung thee wakening by the daisy's side!

Grahame's Birds of Scotland, vol. ii, p. iv

Stownlins-By stealth.

† Burns.

She 'll wander by the aiken tree,
When trystin-time* draws near again ;
And when her lovely form I see,

O haith, she's doubly dear again!

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T.

First when Maggy was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married-spier nae mair-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.-

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonie Meg was nature's child—
-Wiser men than me 's beguil'd;

Whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we 'gree,
I care na by how few may see;

Whistle o'er the lave o't.com.
Wha I wish were maggot's meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,
I could write-but Meg maun see 't-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

YOUNG JOCKEY.

Young Jockey was the blythest lad
In a' our town or here awa;

Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud,*
Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha'!

* Trystin-time-The time of appointment.
The Gaud-at the Plough.

He roos'd my e'en sae bonie blue,
He roos'd my waist sae genty sma;
An' ay my heart came to my mou,
When ne'er a body heard or saw.

My Jockey toils upon the plain,

Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw; And o'er the lee I leuk fu' fain

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'.
An' ay the night comes round again,
When in his arms he taks me a';
An' ay he vows he'll be my ain
As lang's he has breath to draw.

MCPHERSON'S FAREWEL.

Farewel

ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!

McPherson's time will not be long,
On yonder gallows tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?—
On mony a bloody plain

I've dar'd his face, and in this place
I scorn him yet again!

Sae rantingly, Te.

Untie these bands from off my hands,*
And bring to me my sword;

And there's no a man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.

Sae rantingly, &c.

* See the 2d verse of the ballad of Hughie Graham, p. 180.

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;
I die by treacherie:

It burns my heart I must depart
And not avenged be.

Sae rantingly, &c.

Now farewel light, thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!
Sae rantingly, &c.

SONG.

Here 's, a bottle and an honest friend! What wad ye wish for mair, man? Wha kens, before his life may end, What his share may be of care, man. Then catch the moments as they fly, And use them as ye ought, man:Believe me, happiness is shy,

And comes not ay when sought, man.

SONG.

Tune-Braes o' Balquhidder.

I kiss thee yet, yet,

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again,

An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

My bonie Peggy Alison!

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are no sae blest as I am, O!

I'll kiss thee, Sc.

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,.
I clasp my countless treasure, O;
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
I'll kiss thee, Sc.

And by thy e'en sae bonie blue,
i swear I'm thine for ever, O!—
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!

I'll kiss thee, c

SONG.*

Tune-If he be a Butcher neat and trim.

On Cessnock banks there lives a lass,
Could I describe her shape and mien;
The graces of her weelfar'd face,

And the glancin' of her sparklin' e'en.
She's fresher than the morning dawn
When rising Phoebus first is seen,
When dewdrops twinkle o'er the lawn;
An' she 's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

She's stately like yon youthful ash,

That grows the cowslip braes between,.
And shoots its head above each bush;
An she 's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.
She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn
With flow'rs so white and leaves so green,
When purest in the dewy morn;

An' she 's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en.

* This song was an early production. It was recovered by the Editor from the oral communication of a lady residing at Glasgow, whom the Bard in early life affectionately admired.