Whose minds yet, inclines yet,

To dam the rapid spate, Devising, and prizing, Freedom at ony rate.

"Our traitor peers their tyrants treat,
Who gibe them, and their substance eat,
And on their honour stamp.
They, puir degenerates, bend their backs,
The victor, Longshanks, proudly cracks
He has blawn out our lamp.
While true men, sair complaining, tell
With sobs their silent grief,
How Baliol their rights did sell,
With small hope of relief.
Regretting, and fretting,

Aye at his cursed plot,
Who rammed, and crammed,

That bargain down their throat.

"Brave gentry swear, and burghers ban; Revenge is muttered by each clan

That's to the nation true.
The cloisters come to cun the evil,
Mailpayers wish it to the devil,

With its contriving crew.

The hardy would with hearty wills
Upon dire vengeance fall;

The feckless fret owre heughs and hills,
And echo answers all;

Repeating, and greeting,
With mony a sair alace,
For blasting, and casting,

Our honour in disgrace!"

"Wae's me!" quoth I, "our case is bad; And mony of us are gane mad,

Sin' this disgraceful paction.
We're fell'd and harried now by force,
And hardly help for't, that's yet worse,
We are sae forfairn wi' faction.
Then has he not good cause to grumble,
That's forc'd to be a slave?
Oppression does the judgment jumble,
And gars a wise man rave.

May chains then, and pains then,
Infernal be their hire,
Who dang us, and flang us,
Into this ugsome mire!"

Then he. with bauld forbidding look,
And stately air, did me rebuke,
For being of sprite sae mean.
Said he, "It's far beneath a Scot
To use weak curses, when his lot

May sometime sour his spleen.
He rather should, mair like a man,
Some brave design attempt,

Gif it's not in his pith, what then? Rest but a while content;

Not fearful, but cheerful,

And wait the will of fate,
Which minds to, designs to,
Renew your ancient state.

"Iken some mair than ye do all
Of what shall afterward befall
In mair auspicious times;
For often, far above the moon,
We watching beings do convene,

Frae round earth's utmost climes; Where every warden represents

Clearly his nation's case,

Gif famine, pest, or sword torments,
Or villains high in place,

Who keep aye, and heap aye,
Up to themselves great store,
By rundging, and spunging,
The leal laborious poor."

"Say then," said I, "at your high state, Learn'd ye aught of auld Scotland's fate, Gif e'er she'll be hersell?"

With smile celest, quoth he, “I can;
But it's not fit a mortal man

Should ken all I can tell:
But part to thee I may unfold,

And thou mayst safely ken, When Scottish peers slight Saxon gold, And turn true-hearted men; When knavery, and slavery, Are equally despis'd, And loyalty, and royalty, Universally are priz'd,—

“When all your trade is at a stand,
And cunyie clean forsakes the land,
Which will be very soon;
Will priests without their stipends preach?
For naught will lawyers causes stretch?
Faith! that's na easy done!

All this, and mair, maun come to pass
To clear your glamour'd sight,
And Scotland maun be made an ass
To set her judgment right.

They'll jade her, and blad her,

Until she break her tether; Though auld she is, yet bauld she is, And tough like barked leather.

"But mony a corpse shall breathless lie, And wae shall mony a widow cry,

Or all run right again;

O'er Cheviot, prancing proudly north, The foes shall take the field near Forth, And think the day their ain.

"I still support my precedence
Aboon them all, for sword and sense,
Though I have lain right lown;
Which was because I bore a grudge
At some fool Scots who liked to drudge

To princes not their own.

Some thanes their tenants pyk'd and squeez'd
And purs'd up all their rent.

Syne wallop'd to far courts, and bleez'd
Till riggs and shaws were spent.
Syne byndging, and whyndging,
When thus reduced to howps,
They dander, and wander,

About, puir lick-ma-dowps!

But now it's time for me to draw
My shining sword against club-law,
And gar my lion roar;

He shall or lang gie sic a sound,
The echo shall be heard around

Europe, frae shore to shore.

Then let them gather all their strength,
And strive to work my fall;

Though numerous, yet at the length
I will o'ercome them all;

And raise yet, and blaze yet,

My bravery and renown,

By gracing, and placing,

Aright the Scottish crown.

"When my brave Bruce the same shall weir Upon his royal head, full cleir

The diadem will shine;
Then shall your sair oppression cease,
His interest yours he will not fleece,
Nor leave you e'er incline:
Though millions to his purse be lent,
You'll ne'er the puirer be,
But rather richer while it's spent
Within the Scottish sea.

The field then, shall yield then,
To honest husbands' wealth;
Good laws then, shall cause then,
A sickly state have health."

With that my hand, methought, he shook,
And wished I happiness might brook

To eild by night and day;
Syne, quicker than an arrow's flight,
He mounted upwards frae my sight,
Straight to the Milky Way.

My mind him followed through the skies,
Until the briny stream

For joy ran trickling frae mine eyes,
And wak'd me frae my dream.
Then peeping, half sleeping,

Frae furth my rural bield,
It eased me, and pleased me,
To see and smell the field.

For Flora, in her clean array,
New washen with a shower of May,
Looked full sweet and fair;
While her clear husband frae above,
Shed down his rays of genial love,

Her sweets perfum'd the air.

The winds were hush'd, the welkin clear'd,
The glooming clouds were fled,
And all as saft and gay appear'd

As ane Elysian shed;

Whilk heezed, and bleezed,

My heart with sic a fire,
As raises these praises,
That do to heaven aspire.

LOCHABER NO MORE.1

Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on wear;
Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,

And to our warden said

mind;

Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave.

1 The Lass of Patie's Mill, the Yellow hair'd Laddie, Farewell to Lochaber, and some others, must be allowed equal to any, and even superior, in point of pastoral simplicity, to most lyric productions either in the Scottish or any other language.-Joseph Ritson.

Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And without thy favour I'd better not be.
gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame,
And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more

THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE
MOOR.

The last time I came o'er the moor
I left my love behind me;
Ye powers! what pain do I endure,
When soft ideas mind me!
Soon as the ruddy morn displayed
The beaming day ensuing,
I met betimes my lovely maid,
In fit retreats for wooing.

Beneath the cooling shade we lay,

Gazing and chastely sporting: We kissed and promised time away, Till night spread her dark curtain. I pitied all beneath the skies,

Een kings, when she was nigh me; In raptures I beheld her eyes,

Which could but ill deny me.

Should I be called where cannons roar, Where mortal steel may wound me; Or cast upon some foreign shore,

Where dangers may surround me; Yet hopes again to see my love,

To feast on glowing kisses, Shall make my cares at distance move, In prospect of such blisses.

In all my soul there's not one place
To let a rival enter;
Since she excels in every grace,
In her my love shall centre.
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow.
Their waves the Alps shall cover,
On Greenland ice shall roses grow,
Before I cease to love her.

The next time I go o'er the moor,
She shall a lover find me;
And that my faith is firm and pure,
Though I left her behind me:
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain
My heart to her fair bosom;
There, while my being does remain,
My love more fresh shall blossom.

THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.

The lass of Patie's Mill,

So bonny, blythe, and gay, In spite of all my skill, She stole my heart away. When tedding of the hay, Bareheaded on the green, Love 'midst her locks did play, And wanton'd in her een.

Her arms, white, round, and smooth, Breasts rising in their dawn,

To age it would give youth

To press them with his hand. Thro' all my spirits ran

An ecstacy of bliss,

When I such sweetness fan'

Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,

Like flowers that grace the wild, She did her sweets impart,

Whene'er she spoke or smil'd.
Her looks they were so mild,
Free from affected pride,
She me to love beguil'd;

I wish'd her for my bride.

O had I all the wealth

Hopetoun's high mountains fill, Insur'd lang life and health, And pleasure at my will; I'd promise and fulfil,

That none but bonny she, The lass of Patie's Mill,

Should share the same with me.

BESSIE BELL AND MARY GRAY.

O Bessie Bell and Mary Gray,
They are twa bonnie lasses,
They bigged a bow'r on yon burn brae,
And theeked it ower wi' rashes.

1 Burns in a letter to Mr. Thompson gives the following history of the song. He says that Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudoun Castle, being on a visit to the Earl of Loudoun, and one forenoon riding or walking out together, they passed a sweet romantic spot on Irvine water, still called Patie's Mill, where a bonnie lass was "tedding hay bareheaded on the green." The earl observed to Allan that it would be a fine theme for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and lingering behind he composed the first sketch of the Lass of Patie's Mill, which he produced that day at dinner.

ROBERT CRAWFORD, author of the beautiful pastoral ballad of "Tweedside," was born about the year 1690. He was a cadet of the family of Drumsoy, and is sometimes called William Crawford of Auchinames, a mistake in part arising from Lord Woodhouselee misapplying an expression in one of Hamilton of Bangour's letters regarding a Will Crawford. His father, Patrick Crawford (or Crawfurd), was twice married, first to a daughter of a Gordon of Turnberry, by whom he had two sons--Thomas, and Robert the poet; second to Jean, daughter of Crawford of Auchinames, in Renfrewshire, by whom he had a large family. Hence the mistake of making the poet belong to the

Auchinames family. He was on terms of intimacy with Allan Ramsay and William Hamilton of Bangour. He assisted the former in "the glory or the shame" of composing new songs for many old Scottish melodies, which appeared in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, published in the year 1724, and is one of the

ingenious young gentlemen" of whom the editor speaks as contributors to his Miscellany.

Crawford is said to have been a remarkably handsome man, and to have spent many years in Paris. Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in a letter to Dr. Blacklock, dated Oct. 27, 1787, says: "You may tell Mr. Burns when you see him that Colonel Edmonston told me t'other