Nae greater joy I'll e'er pretend

Than that his love prove true and steady, Like mine to him, which ne'er shall end

While Heaven preserves my Highland laddie. O my bonnie, &c.

OWER THE MUIR TO MAGGY.

ALLAN RAMSAY. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

I'LL Ower the muir to Maggy;

Her wit and sweetness call me,
There to my fair I'll show my mind,
Whatever may befall me.

If she love mirth, I'll learn to sing;
Or likes the Nine to follow,
I'll lay my lugs in Pindus' spring,
And invocate Apollo.

If she admire a martial mind,
I'll sheath my limbs in armour;
If to the softer dance inclined,
With gayest airs I'll charm her;
If she love grandeur, day and night
I'll plot my nation's glory,
Find favour in my prince's sight,
And shine in future story.

Beauty can wonders work with ease,
Where wit is corresponding,
And bravest men know best to please
With complaisance abounding.
My bonny Maggy's love can turn
Me to what shape she pleases,

If in her breast that flame shall burn
Which in my bosom bleezes.

AN' THOU WERE MY AIN THING.

AN' thou were my ain thing,

I would lo❜e thee, I would lo'e thee; An' thou were my ain thing,

How dearly would I lo'e thee!

I would clasp thee in my arms,
I'd secure thee from all harms;
For above mortal thou hast charms:
How dearly do I lo❜e thee!
An' thou were, &c.

Of race divine thou needs must be,
Since nothing earthly equals thee,
So I must still presumptuous be,
To show how much I lo'e thee.
An' thou were, &c.

The gods one thing peculiar have,
To ruin none whom they can save;
Oh, for their sake support a slave
Who only lives to lo❜e thee.
An' thou were, &c.

To merit I no claim can make,
But that I lo'e; and for your sake
What man can more I'll undertake,
So dearly do I lo'e thee.
An' thou were, &c.

My passion, constant as the sun,
Flames stronger still, will ne'er have done
Till fates my thread of life have spun,
Which breathing out I'll lo'e thee.
An' thou were, &c.

Like bees that suck the morning dew
Frae flowers of sweetest scent and hue,

Sae wad I dwell upo' thy mou',

And gar the gods envy me.

An' thou were, &c.

Sae lang's I had the use of light,
I'd on thy beauties feast my sight,
Syne in saft whispers through the night
I'd tell how much I loo'd thee.
An' thou were, &c.

How fair and ruddy is my Jean,
She moves a goddess o'er the green!
Were I a king, thou should be queen,
Nane but mysel' aboon thee.

I'd

An' thou were, &c.

grasp thee to this breast of mine,
Whilst thou, like ivy or the vine,

Around my stronger limbs should twine,
Form'd hardy to defend thee.

An' thou were, &c.

Time's on the wing, and will not stay;
In shining youth let's make our hay,
Since love admits of nae delay,

Oh, let nae scorn undo thee.
An' thou were, &c.

While love does at his altar stand,

Ha'e there's my heart, gi'e me thy hand,
And with ilk smile thou shalt command
The will of him wha loves thee.
An' thou were, &c.

This song appears in Allan Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany," with the signature X., indicating that he did not know who the author was. The air is very beautiful, and is traced to as early a period as 1627, but is supposed to be much older. The last six stanzas were written by Allan Ramsay, and appended to the original

song.

BARBARA ALLAN.

ANONYMOUS. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

Ir was in and about the Martinmas time,
When the green leaves were a-fallin',
That Sir John Graham, in the west countrie,
Fell in love wi' Barbara Allan.

He sent his man down through the town
To the place where she was dwallin':
Oh, haste and come to my master dear,
Gin ye be Barbara Allan.

Oh, hooly, hooly, rase she up

To the place where he was lyin',
And when she drew the curtain by,
Young man, I think ye're dyin'.

It's oh I'm sick, I'm very very sick,
And it's a' for Barbara Allan.
Oh, the better for me ye'se never be,
Though your heart's blude were a-spillin'.

Oh, dinna ye mind, young man, she said,
When ye was in the tavern a-drinkin',

That ye made the healths gae round and round,
And slichtit Barbara Allan ?

He turn'd his face unto the wa',
And death was with him dealin':
Adieu, adieu, my dear friends a',
And be kind to Barbara Allan.

And slowly, slowly rase she up,
And slowly, slowly left him,
And sighin' said, she could not stay,
Since death of life had reft him.

She hadna gane a mile but twa,

When she heard the deid-bell ringin',
And every jow that the deid-bell gied,
It cried, Woe to Barbara Allan !

Oh, mother, mother, mak' my bed,
And mak' it saft and narrow;
Since my love died for me to-day,

I'll die for him to-morrow.

A version of this celebrated old song has been inserted in Percy's "Reliques of Ancient English Poetry;" but it seems to be generally acknowledged that the Scottish is the original, upon which the English has been founded, without being improved. The author of the song is unknown; but we are indebted to Allan Ramsay for it preservation.

CROMLET'S LILT.

ANONYMOUS. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.