And dear was she I dare na name,
But I will aye remember.
And dear, &c.

And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum :

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gude watch o'er them;
And here's to them, we dare na tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.
And here's to, &c.

O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN.

O wat ye wha's in yon town,

Ye see the e'ening sun upon, The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'ening sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree;
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.

How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year,
And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear.

The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;

But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms

O' paradise could yield me joy;

But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town,

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit aught else below,

But spare me, spare my Lucy dear.

For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,
And she-as fairest is her form!
She has the truest, kindest heart.

A RED, RED ROSE.

O my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my luve's like the melodie

That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:

The heroine of this song, Mrs. O. (formerly Miss L. J.) died lately at Lisbon. This most accomplished and most lovely woman was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband.

E.

And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will love thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

A VISION.

As I stood by yon roofless tower,

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care;

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply;

The stream adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's;

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
Athort the lift they start and shift,

Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

Variation. To join yon river on the Strath.

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moon-beam, shook, to see,
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His daring look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy-Liberty !

And frae his harp sie strains did flow,
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear;
But oh, it was a tale of woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear!

He sang wi' joy his former day,
He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,

I winna ventur't in my rhymest.

* Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia

rear'd;

When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,
A stern and stalwart ghaist ap-

pear❜d.

This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery, so finely described, is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, or Cloudon, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's tour in Scotland, or Grose's antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be,

would forgive its being omitted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Libertie, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation.

E.

END OF THE SONGS IN JOHNSON'S MUSEUM.