Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was Nature's child—
Wiser men than me's beguiled;

Whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we 'gree,
I carena by how few may see;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding-sheet,
I could write-but Meg maun see't—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

TO DAUNTON ME.

Chiefly by Burns.

THE bluid-red rose at Yule may blaw,
The summer lilies bloom in snaw,
The frost may freeze the deepest sea;
But an auld man shall never daunton me.
To daunton me, and me sae young,
Wi' his fause heart and flatterin' tongue,
That is the thing ye ne'er shall see ;
For an auld man shall never daunton me.

For a' his meal, for a' his maut,

For a' his fresh beef and his saut,

For a' his gowd and white monie,

An auld man shall never daunton me.

His gear may buy him kye and

yowes,
His gear may buy him glens and knowes;
But me he shall not buy nor fee;

For an auld man shall never daunton me.

He hirples twa-fauld, as he dow,

Wi' his teethless gab and auld bauld pow,

And the rain rins doun frae his red-blear'd ee:

That auld man shall never daunton me.

The original of this song will be found among "Hogg's Jacobite Relics." The subject is a favourite one with the early and later Scottish song-writers.

DUNCAN Gray cam' here to woo,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blythe Yule night when we were fu',

Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

Maggie coost her head fu' high,

Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,

Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,

Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',

Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Slighted love is sair to hide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may gae to-France for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Meg grew sick as he grew well,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And, oh, her een they speak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o'

grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't:

Duncan could na be her death,

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;

Now they're crouse and canty baith,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Founded upon an old and licentious ballad of the same name, but having nothing in common with it but the chorus and the title. "Duncan Gray," says Burns to Thomson, "is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air which precludes sentiment. The ludicrous is its ruling feature." "Duncan," says Thomson in reply, "is a lad of grace, and his humour will endear him to every body." The Hon. A. Erskine, in a letter to the poet, says, "Duncan Gray possesses native genuine humour. 'Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn,' is a line that of itself should make you immortal."

CONTENTIT WI' LITTLĖ.

BURNS. Air-"Lumps o' pudding."

CONTENTED wi' little and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gi'e them a skelp, as they're creeping alang,
Wi' a cog o' guid swats and an auld Scottish sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;

But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:

My mirth and good humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a';
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has pass'd?

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way;
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae;
Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is, "Welcome, and welcome again !"

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER.

BURNS. Air-"The Lothian lassie."

LAST May a braw wooer came down the lang glen,
And sair wi' his love he did deave me ;

I said there was naething I hated like men :
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me;
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me.

He spak o' the darts in my bonnie black een,
And vow'd for my love he was dying;

I said he might die when he liked for Jean:
The Lord forgi'e me for lying, for lying;
The Lord forgi'e me for lying!

A weel-stockit mailin, himsel' for the laird,
And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:

I never loot on that I kend it or cared;

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers;
But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less-
The deil tak' his taste to gae near her!-

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess:

Guess ye how, the jaud! I could bear her, could bear her;

Guess ye how, the jaud! I could bear her!

But a' the neist week, as I fretted wi' care,
I gaed to the tryste of Dalgarnock ;
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!

I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock;
I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I ga'e him a blink,
Lest neebors might say I was saucy;

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie ;
And vow'd I was his dear lassie.

I speir'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin',

And how my auld shoon fitted her shachlet feet;
But heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin';
But heavens! how he fell a swearin'.

He begg'd, for gudesake, I wad be his wife,
Or else I would kill him wi' sorrow;
So, e'en to preserve the poor body in life,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow,
I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

to-morrow;

GREEN GROW THE RASHES O!

BURNS.

GREEN grow the rashes O,

Green grow the rashes 0;

The sweetest hours that e'er I spent
Were spent among the lasses O.

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes 0:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses O?