tion by morning light dawning on the window. He suddenly silenced his pipe, and exclaimed, "O but this wearyfu' hanging rings in my lug like a new tune.!"

MEG O' THE MILL.

Oken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller,
And broken the heart o' the barley miller.

The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady:
The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl:-
She's left the guid fellow, and ta'en the churl.

The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving:
The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving ;-
A fine pacing horse, wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ;
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen'!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

"Meg o' the Mill" was a favourite theme with Burns> augmented the humour and the glee of the old song,

and sent it to the Museum; while for Thomson's more classic collection he wrote the present version. The ancient song lives still in the tenacious memory of the peasantry, though little of it deserves to live.

Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten?
Ken ye what Meg o' the.Mill has gotten?
A braw new gown, and the tail o't is rotten,
And that's what Meg o' the Mill has gotten.

DONALD AND FLORA.

When merry hearts were gay,
Careless of aught but play,
Poor Flora slipt away
Sadd'ning to Mora.

Loose flow'd her yellow hair,

Quick heav'd her bosom bare,

And thus to the troubled air

She vented her sorrow:

Loud howls the northern blast,

Bleak is the dreary waste;

Haste then, O Donald, haste,

Haste to thy Flora!

Twice twelve long months are o'er,

Since on a foreign shore

You promis'd to fight no more,

But meet me in Mora.

Come then, O come away !
Donald! no longer stay!
Where can my rover stray
From his lov'd Flora?
Ah! sure he ne'er could be
False to his vows and me!
Heavens! is't not yonder he,
Comes bounding o'er Mora?

Never, O wretched fair!
Sigh'd the sad messenger,
Never shall Donald mair
Meet his loved Flora!
Cold as yon mountain's snow,
Donald, thy love, lies low!
He sent me to soothe thy woe,
While weeping in Mora.

Well fought our valiant men
On Saratoga's plain;

Thrice fled the hostile train

From British glory.

But, though our foes did flee,

Sad was each victory!

For youth, love, and loyalty,

Fell far, far from Mora!

Here, take this love-wrought plaid,

Donald, expiring, said;

Give it to yon dear maid,

Drooping in Mora:

Tell her, O Allan, tell!
Donald thus bravely fell;

And that in his last farewell
He thought on his Flora!

Mute stood the trembling fair,
Speechless with wild despair!
Striking her bosom bare,

She sigh'd, Poor Flora!

Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!-
Flora no more could say;

At length the sound died away
For ever in Mora!

Hector Macneill had some tenderness, but no pathos ; and as pathos was wanted for this tale of woe, the song is a failure. What messenger ever came with so swift a foot and so tedious a tongue :-in three verses he tells what he might have said in three lines, and the silly sorrow of the lady is in keeping with the stupidity of the messenger :

Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!
Flora no more could say.

I have omitted one verse, and more might be spared.

MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE.

Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue,
My only jo and dearie-o;
Thy neck is like the siller dew,
Upon the banks sae brierie-o;—
Thy teeth are o' the ivorie,

O sweet's the twinkle o' thine e'e!
Nae joy, nae pleasure, blinks on me,
My only jo and dearie-o.

The birdie sings upon the thorn
It's sang o' joy, fu' cheerie-o,
Rejoicing in the simmer morn,

Nae care to make it eerie-o;
But little kens the sangster sweet
Aught o' the cares I hae to meet,

That gar my

restless bosom beat,

My only jo and dearie-o.

Whan we were bairnies on yon brae,

And youth was blinkin' bonnie-o, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day

Our joys fu' sweet and monie-o: Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea, And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie-o.