TO MARY IN HEAVEN.

That sacred hour can I forget?
Can I forget the hallow'd grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met,
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface

Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace;

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Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene. The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on ev'ry spray, Till too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, And fondly broods with miser care! Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy blissful place of rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid?

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

WOMEN'S MINDS.

TUNE-For a' that.

THO' Women's minds like winter winds

May shift and turn, and a' that, The noblest breast adores them maist, A consequence I draw that.

For a' that, and a' that,

And twice as meikle's a' that,
The bonnie lass that I loe best,
She'll be my ain for a' that.

Great love I bear to all the fair,

Their humble slave, and a' that;
But lordly will, I hold it still
A mortal sin to thraw that.
For a' that, &c.

But there is ane aboon the lave,
Has wit, and sense, and a' that;
A bonnie lass, I like her best,
And wha a crime dare ca' that?
For a' that, &c.

In rapture sweet this hour we meet,
Wi' mutual love, and a' that;
But for how lang the flie may stang,
Let inclination law that.

For a' that, &c.

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft,
They've ta'en me in, and a' that;
But clear your decks, and here's the sex!
I like the jades for a' that.
For a that, &c.

SWEETEST MAY.

SWEETEST May, let love inspire thee;
Take a heart which he designs thee;
As thy constant slave regard it;
For its faith and truth reward it,

FRAGMENTS.

Proof o' shot to birth or money,
Not the wealthy, but the bonnie;
Not high-born, but noble-minded,
In love's silken band can bind it!

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FRAGMENT.

TUNE-John Anderson my jo.

ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,
I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree root:
Auld Aire ran by before me,
And bicker'd to the seas;
And cushat crowded o'er me
That echoed thro' the braes.

FRAGMENT.

As I was a wand'ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young Ploughman sae sweetly to sing,
And as he was singin' thir words he did say,
There's nae life like the Ploughman's in the month
o' sweet May.

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,
And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast,
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and
sing,

And at night she'll return to her nest back again.

FRAGMENT.

HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,
And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wet wi' dew!

O, what a feast her bonnie mou!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner!

FRAGMENT.

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains,
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd,
Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe,
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd.
I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes,
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear;
For there he rov'd that brake my heart,
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear!

FRAGMENT.

THE winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last,
And the small birds sing on every tree;
Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad,
Since my true love is parted from me.

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear,
May have charms for the linnet or the bee;
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at

But my true love is parted from me. [rest,

FRAGMENT.

TUNE-Bonnie Dundee.

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a', Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon❜on or Paris they'd gotten it a':

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw: There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, But Armour's' the jewel for me o' them a'.

ANNA.

ANNA, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But, ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair!
To hope may be forgiven;

For sure, 'twere impious to despair

So much in sight of heaven.

This is one of our Bard's early productions.-Miss Armour is now Mrs. Burns.