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

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Though 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 wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only fault is loving thee?
If love for love thou wiltna gie,
At least be pity to me shown!
A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison.

Mary Morison" is one of the best and the earliest of Burns's songs. It is written much in the antique style, and the name of the heroine has a national look and sound which excite an interest worth ten thousand Chlorises and Phyllises, and all the fabulous tribe of Arcadian damsels. That the poet did not think well of it himself, we have his own authority: "I do not think remarkable either for its merits or demerits ;-it is impossible to be always original, entertaining, and witty."

it

very

O MAY, THY MORN.

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will aye remember;
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will aye remember.

And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum ;

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gude watch o'er them;
And here's to them we darena tell,

The dearest o' the quorum;
And here's to them we darena tell,

The dearest o' the quorum.

This happy and original little lyric was one of many which flowed from the pen of Burns into the Musical Museum. The contrast of the first and last verses is very great, yet very natural. The poet imagines himself warmed with wine, and seated among his companions, to whom he announces, as the glass goes round,

the attractions of his mistress, and his good fortune in her affection. His confidence goes no farther ;—the name of his love is not to be told; and for this poetical tyranny there is no remedy.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes of Balquhither,

Where the blae-berries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;

Where the deer and the rae,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang simmer day,

On the braès o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bow'r,

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flow'rs of the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,

And the deep glens sae drearie,

And return wi' the spoils

To the bow'r o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling,
So merrily we'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shieling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer is in prime,
Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming;

To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together,

Where glad Innocence reigns

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

This song was written by Robert Tannahill, and its liquid verse and lively images have made it a favourite. It is simple and natural without pastoral affectation, but without much pastoral knowledge. The shepherd's shieling is a bower made of materials far too frail to endure the rattle of a winter storm-it is only a summer residence. It was in a little shieling of turf and heather that I found my friend James Hogg, half way up the hill of Queensberry, with the Lay of the Last Minstrel in his hand, and all his flocks feeding before him; but I should never have looked for him there on a winter night when snows were drifting thick and deep.

JENNY'S BAWBEE.

I met four chaps yon birks amang,
Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang:
I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,
What are they, these we see?
Quoth he, ilk cream-fac'd pawky chiel'
Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,
And here they come awa' to steal
Jenny's bawbee.

The first, a captain to his trade,
Wi' ill-lin'd scull, and back weel clad,
March'd round the barn, and by the shed,
And papped on his knee:

Quoth he, my goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een!
Though ne'er a beauty he had seen
But Jenny's bawbee.

A Norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsent naig and siller whip;

Cried, Here's my horse, lad, haud the grup,

Or tie him to a tree.

What's gowd to me? I've wealth o' lan'

Bestow on ane o' worth your han'

He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.