No affections mar the charm

Of her fair face and faultless form;
No arts coquettish ever aid

The conquests of my Morven maid.

The voice so sweet, the manners kind,
The maiden modesty refined,

The rosy cheek, the sparkling eye,

The raven locks that love to lie

On shoulders of a fairer glow

Than sunshine on Duncorvill's snow,

The heart by no vain thoughts e'er swayed,All, all are thine, sweet Morven maid!

THE MAID OF LEVEN-SIDE.

IN vain I see fair nature's face

In all its springtide beauty rare;

In vain old woodland walks I trace

In search of joys once mine to share;One face-one only-everywhere

My vision haunts, my footsteps guide; That witching face so heavenly fair

Is thine, sweet maid of Leven-side.

The swan on Lomond's breast serene
Delights to please her wooer gay;

The linnet in yon leafy den

Rejoicing lists her lover's lay;

Could Annie thus my love repay,
Unheeding who might frown or chide,
How would my life be one long May!
How Eden-like fair Leven-side!

O that I were the happy herd
Who of her father's kye takes care,
And often a kind look or word

Finds at the milking time from her,
And sees her when his evening fare
She does with gentle grace provide !
To woo her though I might not dare,
I still were blest on Leven-side.

THE LASS OF LOCH-SHIN.

Air-The Hills of Glenorchy.

THOUGH fair be to see the blue lakes of the West,
And many the swains who live nigh them, love-blest,
Yet often find I my fond heart ill at rest

When I think of the far-away Banks of Loch-shin.
Well, well may those Banks ever dear be to me,
Since of all Beauty's daughters the fairest is she
Who with me changed hearts and love-promises free,
One bright summer night, on the Banks of Loch-shin.

Give lordlings to revel in royalty's rays,

Give heroes their laurels-the poet his bays,

'Tis little reck I of rank, riches or praise

While blest with the love of the Lass of Loch-shin.
Each hour seems a year, thus so far from her side;
Oh, for that glad time I can call her my bride,
And, proud as if lord of all Sutherland wide,

Live, loving and loved, on the Banks of Loch-shin!

WINNA THE SILLER MAKE UP FOR AN OLD MAN.

AIR. "Rha mi air banais a'm Bail' Ionaraora.'
("The Campbells are coming.")

Mother.

WINNA the siller make up for an old man!
Winna the siller make up for an old man!
'Twere silly against sic an offer to hold on;
Lass! let the siller make up for the old man.

The old man has gowd an' braid acres a plenty;

His house is weel stored wi' all things gude and dainty ;— Ye may live to repent in a comfortless, cold one,

Gin ye daftly refuse to be paired wi' the old man.

Daughter.

Winna the siller, &c.

Oh mither, bethink ye how people wad jeer me-
Less wife than a nurse to a body sae eerie;
Gin I wed not for love I'll a maid ever hold on;

Come weal, then, or wae, I will ne'er wed the old man.

Winna the siller, &c.]

Mother.

Love looks very nice as a dream,-but be sure, lass,

It counts not for much when the wolf's at the door, lass; A girnel aft toom is nae look-out sae golden

That a lassie like ye should refuse sic an old man.

Daughter.

Winna the siller, &c.

Yet, mither, 'twere sinful to wed ane sae frail-like;
His hair is sae scant an' his cheek is sae clay-like;
Just think ye of arms such as his to enfold one!
Oh mither, dear mither, speak not of the old man.
Winna the siller, &c.

Mother.

Nae doubt he is auld,

then the sooner may you get

The chance wi' his gear to look out for a new mate;

There be young men aneuch, once his banes ye've the

mould on,

Will be happy to fill up the place of the old man.

Daughter.

Winna the siller, &c.

'Tis true, that might be,—yet it seems a mean part, ma, To give up the hand where one can't give the heart, ma; To pity his crase it may be I'm beholden,

But save, mither, save me mair talk of the old man.

Winna the siller, &c.

Mother.

In silks an' in satins he'll busk ye up fine, lass;
Nor need ye wait long till his all may be thine, lass;
Alas, and alas, for the fair, fickle, sold one!

She's wed and away with the frail, foolish old man ! Winna the siller, &c.

THE LASS OF GLENFYNE.

O WOULD that my home were some green summer shieling 'Mid scenes far removed from all discord and din! Scenes dear to the roe, and where skylarks keep trilling Their songs from the day-dawn till gloaming sets in; There, living to love and be loved by the maiden

I trysted yestere'en 'neath the moon's mellow shine, How would all around me seem charming as Eden,— So dear to my heart is yon lass of Glenfyne!

All day with the flock how delighted I'd roam there,

No song-bird more tuneful, no man more care-free! How gladly at sundown my charge I'd bring home there, Where, ready to milk them, my Peggy I'd see !

And when with a kiss she would welcome her lover,
No mortal can guess what a bliss would be mine:
Such life with a lassie perfection all over

O who would not live 'mong the braes of Glenfyne !