a fine free spirit of enjoyment about Ramsay, and his verses exhibit a happy and pleasant mind. The prime of his life, from twenty-five to five and forty, he devoted to poetry: he began when observation came to the aid of fancy, and he desisted when the gravity of years admonished him to turn to more solemn thoughts than merry verse. With him life seems to have glided more felicitously away than with many other poets-he had fortune and favour on his side, and had the good sense to be content.

BESSY BELL AND MARY GRAY.

O Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,

They are twa bonny lassies,

They bigg'd a bower on yon burn-brae,
And theek'd it o'er wi' rashes.
Fair Bessy Bell I loo'd yestreen,

And thought I ne'er could alter;
But Mary Gray's twa pawky een,
They gar my fancy falter.

Now Bessy's hair's like a lint-tap;
She smiles like a May morning,
When Phoebus starts frae Thetis' lap,
The hills with rays adorning :

White is her neck, saft is her hand,
Her waist and feet's fu' genty;
With ilka grace she can command; '
Her lips, O wow! they're dainty.

And Mary's locks are like a craw,
Her een like diamonds' glances;
She's aye sae clean, redd up, and braw,
She kills whene'er she dances:
Blyth as a kid, with wit at will,
She blooming, tight, and tall is;
And guides her airs sae gracefu' still,
O Jove, she's like thy Pallas.

Dear Bessy Bell and Mary Gray,
Ye unco sair oppress us;
Our fancies jee between you twa,
Ye are sic bonny lasses:
Wae's me! for baith I canna get,

To ane by law we're stented;
Then I'll draw cuts, and take my fate,
And be with ane contented.

The heroines of this song are not so much indebted to Allan Ramsay for their celebrity as to the affecting story which tradition associates with their names. Elizabeth Bell was the daughter of a gentleman in Perthshire, and Mary Gray was the daughter of Gray of Lyndoch. They were intimate friends, and very witty

and very beautiful. When the plague visited Scotland in 1666, they built a bower in a secluded and romantic glen, near Lyndoch, and retiring to the spot, which is yet called "Burnbrae," hoped to survive the contagion. But they fell victims to their affections: they were visited by a young gentleman, either as a friend or admirer; and the plague soon made them occupiers of the same grave. As they were friends in life, so in death they were not divided. The place where they lie buried is enclosed; and their grave is respected by all who sympathise in their mournful story. Lyndoch, where they lie, is the property of Thomas Graham, Lord Lyndoch. Their fate was the subject of an old and pathetic song, of which the following fragment only remains :

O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,
They were twa bonnie lasses,

They biggit a bower on yon burn brae,

And theekit it o'er wi' rashes:

They theekit o'er wi' rashes green,
They theekit it o'er wi' heather,
But the pest came frae the burrows town,
And slew them baith thegither.

They thought to lie in Methven kirk,

Amang their noble kin,

But they maun lie on Lyndoch brae,

To beak fornent the sun.

O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,

They were twa bonnie lasses,

They biggit a bower on yon burn-brae,

And theekit it o'er wi' rashes.

These fine verses were recited to me by Sir Walter Scott.

DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE.

When trees did bud, and fields were green,

And broom bloom'd fair to see;

When Mary was complete fifteen,

And love laugh'd in her eye;

Blyth Davie's blinks her heart did move
To speak her mind thus free,
Gang down the burn, Davie, love,
And I will follow thee.

Now Davie did each lad surpass,

That dwelt on this burn-side,
And Mary was the bonniest lass,
Just meet to be a bride:

Her cheeks were rosy, red, and white,

Her een were bonny blue;

Her looks were like Aurora bright,

Her lips like dropping dew.

As down the burn they took their way,

What tender tales they said!
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,
And with her bosom play'd;
Till baith at length impatient grown

To be mair fully blest,

In yonder vale they lean'd them down ;-
Love only saw the rest.

What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play,
And naething sure unmeet;
For, ganging hame, I heard them say,
They lik'd a walk sae sweet;
And that they aften shou'd return

Sic pleasure to renew.

Quoth Mary, love, I like the burn,

And shall follow you.

ay

The air to which this song is written is at least an hundred years old; and it is probable that old words, bearing the same name, accompanied the air. The claim which Burns makes for the air, as the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood-hounds to Riddell of Tweeddale, has been doubted by Sir Walter Scott in his review of the works of Burns: if the doubt is expressed because of the antiquity of the air, the answer is, that no era is assigned for the existence of this musical borderer, and that his office was one of great antiquity, and has long since ceased. The heroine of the song has been accused of indelicacy in pointing out a