Wert thou na left a dautit pledge,

To steal the eerie hours awa!

The highland Baloo, or. nursing song, is of a martial unlike this sweet little effusion from

character, and very

Hey balou, my sweet wee Donald,
Image of the great Clanronald;
Brawly kens our wanton chief
Wha gat my young highland thief.

Leeze me on thy bonnie craigie!
An' thou live thou'll steal a naigie,
Travel the country through and through,
And bring me hame a Carlisle cow.

Through the lowlands, o'er the border,
Weel, my babie, mayest thou furder ;
Herry the loons o' the low countrie,

Syne to the highlands hame to me.

The highland virago sees in imagination her son returning victorious from a foray, and rejoices in the resemblance which he bears to the head of the clan who had honoured her with his caresses. The more gentle lowland dame seeks to hush her own feelings and her child at the same time with the hope of her husband's return, the fair looks of her offspring, and the continuance of her love.

And whar gat ye that young thing,
My boy Tammy?

I gat her down in yonder howe,
Smiling on a broomy knowe,

Herding ae wee lamb and ewe
For her poor mammy.

What said ye to the bonnie bairn,
My boy Tammy?

I praised her een, sae lovely blue,
Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou ;-
I pree'd it aft, as ye may trow !-
She said, she'd tell her mammy.

I held her to my beating heart,
My young, my smiling Lammie!

I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I've wealth o' plenishen and gear;
Ye'se get it a' wer't ten times mair,
Gin ye will leave

your mammy.

The smile gade aff her bonnie face

I maunna leave my mammy.

She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claise,
She's been my comfort a' my days:—
My father's death brought monie waes—
I canna leave my mammy.

We'll tak her hame and mak her fain,
My ain kind-hearted Lammie!
We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise,
We'll be her comfort a' her days.

The wee thing gie's her hand, and says,—

There! gang and ask

my mammy.

Has she been to the kirk wi' thee,

My boy Tammy?

She has been to the kirk wi' me,

And the tear was in her e'e:

But O! she's but a young thing,

Just come frae her mammy.

Tammie has been praised for his singleness of heart; the Lammie for her simplicity; and the old woman for kindliness of nature and warmth of affection. I cannot feel that all this is deserved: the simplicity of Macneill is without manliness; his lovers are somewhat conceited and silly; and their language belongs to that period which precedes the dawn of love. The following ludicrous variation was often sung along with the song, and passed with many for a part of it :—

How auld may thy young thing be,
My boy Tammie ?

How auld may thy young thing be,

My kind hearted Lammie?

She's twice six, twice seven,
Twice twenty and eleven;
Yet she's but a young thing

Just come frae her mammie.

This verse holds a riddle within it which I once heard solved :

: some of my readers may be able to pick the loop of the rustic enigma.

THE AULD MAN.

But lately seen in gladsome green
The woods rejoice the day,,

Through gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay :

But now our joys are fled

On winter blasts awa!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;

My trunk of eild, but buss or bield,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.

VOL. IV.

Oh, age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain!

Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,

Why com'st thou not again!

Burns wrote the Auld Man in one of those moments when he was, to use his own glowing words

On the past too fondly pondering,

O'er the hapless future wandering.

But weary days of old age and nights of sleepless pain he was not doomed to suffer. The song was composed to an East Indian air: it has never been a favourite. Youth wishes to enjoy the golden time upon its hands, and age is far from fond of chanting of declining strength, white pows, and general listlessness.

ANNIE.

By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi:
The winds were whispering through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:

I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures mony;
And the wild-wood echoes rang―
ay

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!