MY DEARIE, IF THOU DEE.

ROBERT CRAWFORD. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.

Love never more shall give me pain,

My fancy's fix'd on thee;
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,

My Peggie, if thou dee.

Thy beauties did such pleasure give,
Thy love's so true to me;
Without thee I shall never live,
My dearie, if thou dee.

If fate shall tear thee from my breast,
How shall I lonely stray!

In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,
In sighs the silent day.

I ne'er can so much virtue find,
Nor such perfection see:
Then I'll renounce all womankind,
My Peggie, after thee.

No new-blown beauty fires my heart
With Cupid's raving rage;

But thine, which can such sweets impart,

Must all the world engage.

"Twas this that, like the morning sun,

Gave joy and life to me;

And when its destined day is done,

With Peggy let me dee.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasures share;
Ye who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair;

Restore my Peggie's wonted charms,

Those charms so dear to me;

Oh, never rob them from those arms—

I'm lost if Peggy dee.

The beautiful air to which this song is sung has been traced back in мs. to the year 1692; but is probably much older.

JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE.

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

By smooth-winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cried he, Oh, hey! maun I still live pining
Mysel' thus away, and daurna discover

To my bonny Hay that I am her lover!

Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stranger;
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer;
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture,—
Maybe, ere we part, my vows may content her.

She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good morrow;
The sward of the mead enamell'd with daisies
Looks wither'd and dead when twined of her graces.

But if she appears where verdure invite her,

The fountains run clear, and the flowers smell the sweeter;

"Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing;

Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glowing.

The mair that I gaze the deeper I'm wounded,
Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded;
I'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye;

For a' my desire is John Hay's bonnie lassie.

Mr. Chambers states that there is a tradition in Roxburghshire that this song was written by a carpenter or joiner in honour of a daughter of John Hay, first Marquis of Tweeddale.

JOHN HAY'S BONNIE MARY.

From Peter Buchan's manuscript collection of ancient and traditional
Scottish songs.

As I gaed down an' farther down.

An' down into a cellar,

There I saw the bonniest lass

Was writing a letter.

She was writing an' inditing,

And losing her colour,
But ilka kiss of her mou'
Cost me a dollar.

Cost me a dollar,

An' a glass o' canary; An, oh, for a kiss

Of John Hay's bonnie Mary! John Hay, hoch, hey,

John Hay's bonnie Mary; What wad I gie

For John Hay's bonnie Mary!

Her father was handsome,

Her mother was tall;

But as for their daughter,

She's the flower o' them all. She's handsome and sprightly, Genteel but not saucy;

I wad gang the warld

Wi' John Hay's bonny lassie.

THY FATAL SHAFTS.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT, the novelist, born 1721, died 1774.

THY fatal shafts unerring move,

I bow before thine altar, Love!

I feel thy soft resistless flame

Glide swift through all my vital frame.

For while I gaze my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of transport 'whelm my soul.

My falt'ring tongue attempts in vain
In soothing murmurs to complain;
My tongue some secret magic ties,
My murmurs sink in broken sighs.

Condemn'd to nurse eternal care,
And ever drop the silent tear;
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die!

YE rivers so limpid and clear,

Who reflect, as in cadence you flow,

All the beauties that vary the year,

All the flow'rs on your margins that grow; How blest on your banks could I dwell,

Were Margret the pleasure to share,

And teach your sweet echoes to tell

With what fondness I doat on the fair!

Ye harvests, that wave in the breeze
As far as the view can extend;
Ye mountains, umbrageous with trees,
Whose tops so majestic ascend;
Your landscape what joy to survey,
Were Margret with me to admire ;
Then the harvest would glitter how gay,
How majestic the mountains aspire!

In pensive regret whilst I rove,

The fragrance of flow'rs to inhale; Or catch, as it swells from the grove, The music that floats on the gale:

Alas, the delusion how vain!
Nor odours nor harmony please
A heart agonising with pain,
Which tries every posture for ease.

If anxious to flatter my woes,

Or the languor of absence to cheer,
Her breath I would catch in the rose,
Or her voice in the nightingale hear;
To cheat my despair of its prey,

What object her charms can assume!
How harsh is the nightingale's lay!
How insipid the rose's perfume!

Ye zephyrs that visit my fair,

Ye sunbeams around her that play,
Does her sympathy dwell on my care?
Does she number the hours of my stay?
First perish ambition and wealth,

First perish all else that is dear,

Ere one sigh should escape her by stealth,
Ere my absence should cost her one tear.
When, when shall her beauties once more
This desolate bosom surprise?
Ye fates, the blest moments restore
When I bask'd in the beams of her eyes;
When with sweet emulation of heart,

Our kindness we struggled to shew;
But the more that we strove to impart,
We felt it more ardently glow.

BENEATH A GREEN SHADE.

DR. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

BENEATH a green shade a lovely young swain
Ae evening reclined to discover his pain;
So sad yet so sweetly he warbled his woe,

The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow;
Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain,
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.