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My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermitage might warm;
My Peggy's worth, iny Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly, heavenly fair,
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye, The kindling lustre of an eye; Who but owns their magic sway, Who but knows they all decay! The tender thrill, the pitying tear, The generous purpose, nobly dear, The gentle look, that rage disarms, These are all immortal charms.

Written in a Wrapper enclosing a letter to capt. Grose, to be left with Mr. Cardonnel, antiquarian.

Tune, "Sir John Malcolm."

Ken ye ought o' captain Grose?
Igo,& ago.

If he's amang his friends or foes?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he south, or is he north?
Igo, & ago.

Or drowned in the river Forth?

Iram, coram, dago.

Is he slain by Highland bodies?
Igo,& ago.

And eaten like a wether-haggis ?
Iram, coram, dago.

Is he to Abram's bosom gane?
Igo, & ago.

Or haudin Sarah by the wame?
Iram, coram, dago.

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him!
Igo, & ago,

As for the deil, he daur na steer him,
Iram, coram, dago.

But please transmit th' enclosed letter,
Igo,& ago.

Which will oblige your humble debtor,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye hae auld stanes in store,
Igo, & ago.

The very stanes that Adam bore,
Iram, coram, dago.

So may ye get in glad possession,
Igo, & ago.

The coins o' Satan's coronation!

Iram, coram, dago.

THE LASS OF BALLOCHMYLE.

'Twas even-the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang*;
The zephyr wantoned round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the mavis sang,

All Nature listening seemed the while,
Except where green wood echoes rang
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

Hang-Scotticism for hung.

With careless step I onward strayed,
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whispered, passing by,

Behold the lass o' Ballochmylet!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild :
But woman, nature's darling child!

There all her charms she does compile ;
Even there, her other works are foil'd
By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

O had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' sheltered in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotland's plain!
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain
With joy, with rapture, I would toil,
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;"
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine;

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine
With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Variation. The lily's hue and rose's dye
Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle

CASTLE GORDON.

Air.-Morag

I.

Streams that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chain;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands:
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by castle Gordon.

II.

Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave,
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms, by castle Gordon.

III.

Wildly here, without controul,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,

She plants the forest, pours the flood;
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonnie castle Gordon.

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The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morn

ing,

And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale:

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem

fair,

While the lingering moments are numbered by

care?

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