They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill ; T'he best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill ; But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight.

I red, c.

YOUNG PEGGY.

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,

Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,

With early gems adorning :
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams

That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,

And cheer each fresh'ning flower.

Her lips more than the cherries bright,

A richer die has grac'd them,
They charm th' adıniring gazer's sight,

And sweetly tempt to taste them:
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild,

When feather'd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,

In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,

Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming spring unbends the brow

Of surly, savage winter.
Detraction's eye no aim can gain

Her winning pow’rs to lessen ;
And fretful envy grins in vain,

The poison'd tooth to fasten.

Ye pow’rs of honour, love, and truth,

From ev'ry ill defend her;
Inspire the highly favour'd youth

The destinies intend her:

Still fan the sweet connubial flame

Responsive in each bosom ;
And bless the dear parental name

With many a filial blossom*.

SONG.

Tune- The King of France, he rade a Race.

Amang the trees where humming bees

At buds and flowers were hinging, o, Auld Caledon drew out her drone,

And to her pipe was singing, 0;
'Twas pibrocht, sang, strathspey, or reels,

She dirld them aff fu' clearly, O,
When there eam a yell o foreign squeels,

That dang her tapsalteerie, 0.

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's,

They made our lugs grow eerie, O, The hungry bike did scrape and pike

'Till we were wae and weary, 0;But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cas'd

A prisoner aughteen year awa, He fir'd a fiddler in the north,

That dang them tapsalteerie, 0. * This was one of the poet's earliest compositions. It is copied from a MS. book, which he had before his first publication.

+ Pibroch-A Highland war song, adapted to the bagpipe.

SONG.

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part,

As far's the pole and line ; Her dear idea round my heart

Should tenderly entwine.

Tho' mountains frown and desarts howl,

And oceans roar between ;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,

I still would love my Jean.

FRAGMENT.

Tune-John Anderson, my jo.

One night as I did wander,

When corn begins to shoot, I sat me down to ponder,

Upon an auld tree root ; Auld Aire ran by before me,

And bicker'd to the seas; A cushat* crooded o'er me

That echoed thro' the braes.

FRAGMENT.

Tune-Daintie Davie.

There was a lad was born in Kylet,
But what na' day o’ what na style
I doubt its hardly worth the while

To be sae nice wi' Rovin.

* The dove or wild pigeon. -
+ Kyle-a district of Ayrshire.

Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ang
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'

Blew hansel in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo scho, wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof,

I think we'll ca' him Robin.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit 'till us a',

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',

So leeze me on thee, Robin.

Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, sir,
Ye gar the lasses
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,

So blessins on thee, Robin!

Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin.

A FRAGMENT.

Tune-I had a horse and I had nae mair.

When first I came to Stewart Kyle,

My mind it was nae steady, Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade,

A mistress still I had aye :

But when I came roun' by Mauchline town,

Not dreadin' any body,
My heart was caught before I thought,

And by a Mauchline lady.

FRAGMENT.

Tune-Gallawater.

Altho

my

bed were in yon muir, Amang the heather, in my plaidie, Yet happy, happy would I be,

Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

When o'er the hill beat surly storms,

And winter nights were dark and rainy; I'd seek some dell, and in my arms

I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's Peggy.

Were I a baron proud and high,

And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me,

The sharin't with Montgomerie's Pegsy.