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It chane'd the stack he faddom'd thrice,1
Was timmer-propt for thrawin';
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak

For some black, grousome carlin;
An' loot a winze, an' drew a stroke,
Till skin in blypes came haurlin'
Aff's nieves that night.

A wanton widow Leezie was,

As canty as a kittlin:

But, och! that night amang the shaws,
She got a fearfu' settlin'!

She thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
An' owre the hill gaed scrievin',
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,2
To dip her left sark sleeve in,
Was bent that night.

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, As through the glen it wimpl't; Whyles round a rocky scaur it strays,

Whyles in a wiel it dimpl't; Whyles glittered to the nightly rays,

Wi' bickering dancing dazzle; Whyles cookit underneath the bracs, Below the spreading hazel,

Unseen that night.3

Amang the brackens on the brae,
Between her and the moon,
The deil, or else an outler quey,
Gat up and gae a croon:

Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hool!

Near lav'rock-height she jumpit, But mist a fit, and in the pool Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, Wi' a plunge that night.

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, The luggies three are ranged,

1 Take an opportunity of going unnoticed to a bere stalk, and fathom it three times round. The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal yoke fellow

* You go out, one or more, for this is a social spell, to a south running spring or rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and sometime near midnight an apparition having the exact figure of the grand object in question will come and turn the sleeve as if to dry

the other side of it.

3 Those who understand the Scottish dialect will allow this to be one of the finest instances of description which the records of poetry-afford. Though of a very different nature, it may be compared in point of excellence with Thomson's description of a river swollen by the rains of winter bursting through the straits that confine its torrent. - Dr. James Currie.

And every time great care is ta'en

To see them duly changed: Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys Sin Mar's year did desire, Because he gat the toom dish thrice, He heav'd them on the fire In wrath that night.

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, I wat they did na weary;

An' unco tales, an' funnie jokes,

Their sports were cheap and cheery; Till butter'd so'ns wi' fragrant lunt, Set a' their gabs a-steerin'; Syne wi' a social glass o' strunt, They parted aff careerin'

Fu blythe that night.

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,"

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH
IN APRIL, 1786.

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower,
Thou'st met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem;

To spare thee now is past my power,
Thou bonnie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet
Wi' spreckled breast,

When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;

4 Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in another, leave the third empty; blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth when the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the left hand, if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells with equal certainty no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is altered. 5 Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween supper.

The address "To a Mountain Daisy" is a poem of the same nature with the address "To a Mouse," though somewhat inferior in point of originality, as well as in the interest produced. To extract out of incidents so common, and seemingly so trivial as these, so fine a train of sentiment and imagery is the surest proof, as well as the most brilliant triumph of original genius.— Dr. James Currie.

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forth the moral discernment and warm affections of the poor inhabitant" it is supposed to be inscribed that "Thoughtless follies laid him low, And stained his name'

Who but himself-himself anticipating the too probable termination of his own course? Here is a sincere and solemn avowal-a public declaration from his own will --a confession at once devout, poetical, and humana history in the shape of a prophecy! What more was required of the biographer than to have put his seal to the writing, testifying that the foreboding had been realized, and the record was authentic ?— William Wordsworth.

2 In Man was made to Mourn," whatever might be the casual idea that set the poet to work, it is but too evident that he wrote from the habitual feelings of his own bosom. The indignation with which he throngh life contemplated the inequality of human condition, and particularly-and who shall say with absolute injustice?-the contrast between his own worldly circumstances and intellectual rank, was never more bitterly nor more loftily expressed than in some of these stanzas.-John Gibeon Lockhart.

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Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morison."

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake would gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown:

A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

HIGHLAND MARY.1

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry!
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!
How rich the hawthorn's blossom!
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life

Was my sweet Highland Mary!

Wi' mony a vow, and locked embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;

And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore ourselves asunder;

But, oh! fell Death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

1 Burns, in a letter to Thomson, writes: "The foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in my happiest manner. The subject is one of the most interesting passages of my youthful days; perhaps, after all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the composition." Who that has read the sad story of the poet's career is ignorant of the history of Mary Campbell?-ED.

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mould'ring now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary!

MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL.?

Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong,
The wretch's destinie!

Macpherson's time will not be long
On yonder gallows-tree.

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and danc'd it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

Oh, what is death but parting breath?
On many a bloody plain

I've dar'd his face, and in this place

I scorn him yet again.

Untie these bands from off my hands,
And bring to me my sword;
And there's no a man in all Scotland,
But I'll brave him at a word.

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife;

I die by treacherie:

It burns my heart I must depart,
And not avenged be.

Now farewell light-thou sunshine bright,
And all beneath the sky!

May coward shame distain his name,
The wretch that dares not die!

Sae rantingly, sae wantonly,

Sae dauntingly gaed he;

He play'd a spring, and dane'd it round,
Below the gallows-tree.

CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES.3

Ca' the yowes to the knowes,
Ca' them whar the heather grows,

2 Another wild, stormful song, that dwells in our ear and mind with a strange tenacity, is "Macpherson's Farewell."... Who except Burns could have given words to such a soul; words that we never listen to without a strange, half barbarous, half-poetic fellowfeeling.-Thomas Carlyle.

3 This beautiful song, attributed to Isabel Pagan a native of Ayrshire (born 1743, died 1821), was improved

Ca' them whar the burnie rows,
My bonnie dearie.

As I gaed doun the water side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
And ca'd me his dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Will ye gang doun the water side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide
Beneath the hazels spreading wide.

The moon it shines fu' clearly.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

I was bred up at nae sie school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool;
And a' the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

Ye shall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye's lie and sleep,
And ye sall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said.
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad;
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

While waters wimple to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my ee,
Ye aye sall be my dearie.
Ca' the yowes, &c.

BRUCE'S ADDRESS.1

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie!

He says,

by Burns, who added the concluding stanza. "This song is in the true Scottish taste, yet I do not know that either air or words were ever in print before." Burns wrote another version of this lyric, commencing, "Hark the mavis' evening sang."—ED.

1 Burns is the poet of freedom, as well as of beauty; his song of the Bruce, his "A man's a man for a' that," and others of the same mark, will endure while the language lasts.-Allan Cunningham,

So long as there is warm blood in the heart of Scotchman or man, it will move in fierce thrills under this war-ode (" Bruce's Address"): the best, we believe, that ever was written by any pen.-Thomas Carlyle.

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That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove,

Where by the winding Ayr we met,

To live one day of parting love?

Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past— Thy image at our last embrace!

Ah! little thought we 'twas our last!

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,

Twined amorous round the raptured scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray,

2 At Ellisland Burns wrote many of his finest strains --and, above all, that immortal burst of passion, “To Mary in Heaven." This celebrated poem was composed in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day in which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.-Professor Wilson.

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