composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Earl of Traquair has planted a clump of trees near by, which he calls "The New Bush."

HEAR me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Tho' thus I languish and complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded never move her;
The bonnie bush aboon Traquair,

Was where I first did love her.

That day she smil'd and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.

I try'd to sooth my am'rous flame,
In words that I thought tender;
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet, she shews disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonnie bush bloom'd fair in May,
Its sweets I'll ay remember;
But now her frowns make it decay,
It fades as in December.

Ye rural pow'rs, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me :
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender;
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

CROMLET'S LILT.

"In the latter end of the 16th century, the Chisholins were proprietors of the estate of Cromlecks (now possessed by the Drummonds). The eldest son of that family was very much attached to a daughter of Sterling of Ardoch, commonly known by the naine of Fair Helen of Ardoch.

"At that time the opportunities of meeting betwixt the sexes were more rare, consequently more sought after than now; and the Scottish ladies, far from priding themselves on extensive literature, were thought sufficiently book-learned if they could make out the Scriptures in their mother tongue. Writing was entirely out of the line of female education: At that period the most of our young men of family sought a fortune, or found a grave, in France. Cromlus, when he went abroad to the war, was obliged to leave the management of his correspondence with his mistress to a lay brother of

the monastery of Dumblain, in the immediate neighbourhood of Cromleck, and near Ardoch. This man, unfortunately, was deeply sensible of Helen's charms. He artfully prepossessed her with stories to the disadvantage of Cromlus; and by misinterpreting or keeping up the letters and messages intrusted to his care, he entirely irritated both. All connection was broken off betwixt them: Helen was inconsolable, and Cromlus has left behind him, in the ballad called Cromlet's Lilt, a proof of the elegance of his genius, as well as the steadiness of his love.

"When the artful monk thought time had sufficiently softened Helen's sorrow, he proposed himself as a lover: Helen was obdurate: but at last, overcome by the persuasions of her brother with whom she lived, and who, having a family of thirty-one children, was probably very well pleased to get her off his hands, she submitted, rather than consented to the ceremony; but there her compliance ended; and, when forcibly put into bed, she started quite frantic from it, screaming out, that after three gentle taps on the wainscoat, at the bed head, she heard Cromlus's voice, crying, Helen, Helen, mind me.' Cromlus soon after coming home, the treachery of the confidant was discovered, her marriage disannulled,-and Helen became lady Cromlecks."

N. B. Marg, Murray, mother to these thirtyone children, was daughter to Murray of Strewn, one of the seventeen sons of Tullybardine, and whose youngest son, commonly called the Tutor of Ardoch, died in the year 1715, aged 111 years.

And when a ghost I am,

I'll visit thee,

O thou deceitful dame,

Whose cruelty

Has kill'd the kindest heart
That e'er felt Cupid's dart,
And never can desert

From loving thee.

MY DEARIE, IF THOU DIE.
ANOTHER beautiful song of Crawford's.

Love never more shall give me pain,
My fancy's fix'd on thee,
Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,
My Peggy, if thou die.

Thy beauty doth such pleasure give,
Thy love's so true to me,
Without thee I can never live,
My dearie, if thou die.

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 woman kind, My Peggy, 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 destin'd day is done,
With Peggy let me die.

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

SHE ROSE AND LET ME IN.

THE old set of this song, which is still to be found in printed collections, is much prettier than this but somebody, I believe it was Ramsay, took it into his head to clear it of some seeming indelicacies, and made it at once more chaste and more dull.

THE night her silent sable wore,
And gloomy were the skies;
Of glitt'ring stars appear'd no more
Than those in Nelly's eyes.
When at her father's yate I knock'd,
Where I had often been,

She, shrouded only with her smock,
Arose and loot me in.

Fast lock'd within her close embrace,
She trembling stood asham'd;
Her swelling breast, and glowing face,
And ev'ry touch inflam'd.
My eager passion I obey'd,

Resolv'd the fort to win;
And her fond heart was soon betray'd
To yield and let me in.

Then, then, beyond expressing,
Transporting was the joy;
I knew no greater blessing,
So bless'd a man was I.
And she, all ravish'd with delight,
Bid me oft come again;
And kindly vow'd, that ev'ry night
She'd rise and let me in.

But ah at last she prov'd with bairn,
And sighing sat and dull,
And I that was as much concern'd,

Look'd e'en just like a fool.
Her lovely eyes with tears ran o'er,
Repenting her rash sin :

She sigh'd, and curs'd the fatal hour
That e'er she loot me in.

But who cou'd cruelly deceive,
Or from such beauty part?

I lov'd her so, I could not leave
The charmer of my heart;
But wedded, and conceal'd our crime:
Thus all was well again,

And now she thanks the happy time
That e'er she loot me in.

I AM not sure if this old and charming air be of the South, as is commonly said, or of the North of Scotland. There is a song apparently as ancient as Ewe-Bughts, Marion, which sings to the same tune, and is evidently of the North. It begins thus :

THE Lord o' Gordon had three dochters,
Mary, Marget, and Jean,

They wad na stay at bonnie Castle Gordon,
But awa to Aberdeen.

WILL Ye go to the ewe-bughts, Marion,
And wear in the sheep wi' me;
The sun shines sweet, my Marion,
But aae haff sae sweet as thee.
O Marion's a bonny lass,

And the blyth blinks in her e'e;
And fain wad I marry Marion,

Gin Marion wad marry me.

There's gowd in your garters, Marion, And silk on your white hause-bane; Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion,

At e'en when I come kame. There's braw lads in Earnslaw, Marion, Wha gape, and glower with their e'e, At kirk when they see my Marion ; But nane of them lo'es like me.

I've nine milk-ewes, my Marion,
A cow and a brawny quey,
I'll gie them a' to my Marion,
Just on her bridal-day :

And ye's get a green sey apron,

And waistcoat of the London brown, And wow! but ye will be vap'ring,

Whene'er ye gang to the town.

I'm young and stout, my Marion ;

Nane dance like me on the green; And gin ye forsake me, Marion, I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean: Sae put on your pearlins, Marion,

And kyrtle of the cramasie;

And soou as my chin has nae hair on, I shall come west, and see ye. ·

LEWIS GORDON.†

THIS air is a proof how one of our Scots tunes comes to be composed out of another.

Tune of Tarry Woo.

Of which tune, a different set has insensibly varied into a different air.-To a Scots critic, the pathos of the line,

"Tho' his back be at the wa',"

-must be very striking.-It needs not a Jacobite prejudice to be affected with this song. The supposed author of "Lewis Gordon" was a Mr. Geddes, priest, at Shenval, in the Ainzie.

OH! send Lewie Gordon hame,
And the lad I winna name;
Tho' his back be at the wa',

Here's to him that's far awa!

Oh hon! my Highland man,
Oh, my bonny Higkland man;
Weel would I my true-love ken,
Amang ten thousand Highland men.

Oh! to see his tartan-trews,
Bonnet blue, and laigh-heel'd shoes;
Philabeg aboon his knee;
That's the lad that I'll gang wi' !
Oh hon, &c.

The princely youth that I do mean,
Is fitted for to be a king:

On his breast he wears a star; You'd tak him for the God of War Ok hon, &c.

Oh to see this Princely One, Seated on a royal throne! Disasters a' would disappear, Then begins the Jub'lee year! Oh hon, &c.

OH ONO CHRIO.

DR. BLACKLOCK informed me that this song was composed on the infamous massacre of Glencoe.

OH! was not I a weary wight!

Oh! ono chri, oh! ono chri— Maid, wife, and widow, in one night! When in my soft and yielding arms, O! when most I thought him free from harms. Even at the dead time of the night, They broke my bower, and slew my knight. With ae lock of his jet-black hair, I'll tie my heart for evermair; Nae sly-tongued youth, or flatt'ring swain, Shall e'er untye this knot again; Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be, Nor pant for aught, save heaven and thee.

(The chorus repeated at the end of each line).