Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,
That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !

That we may brag we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.*

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.

BURNS.

TUNE-Willie brew'd a Peck o' Maut.

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam' to prie;
Three blyther lads, that lee lang night,
Ye wadna fund in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're no that fou,
But just a wee drap in our ee;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
But aye we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys;
Three merry boys I trow are we :
And mony a nicht we've merry been,
And mony mae we hope to be!

It is the mune-I ken her horn-
That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bricht to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee.

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,

A cuckold coward loun is he;

* Written in honour of Miss Lesley Baillie of Ayrshire, (now Mrs Cumming of Logie,) when on her way to England, through Dumfries.

Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three.*

THE POSIE.

BURNS.

TUNE-The Posie.

Oн, luve will venture in where it daurna weel be seen; Oh, luve will venture in where wisdom ance has been; But I will doun yon river rove, amang the wood sae

green,

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

pou,

The primrose I will the firstlin o' the year;
And I will pou the pink, the emblem o' my dear;
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without

a peer:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pou the buddin' rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou; The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue: And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity, of unaffected air:
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

"This air is Masterton's; the song mine. The occasion of it was this: -Mr William Nicol, of the High School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit. We had such a joyous meeting, that Mr Masterton and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business." Burns, apud Cromek's Select Scottish Songs, vol. II. p. 135. Currie, who mentions that Nicol's farm was that of Laggan, in Nithsdale, adds, that "these three honest fellows-all men of uncommon talents, were in 1798 all under the turf."

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day; But the songster's nest within the bush I winna take away:

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pou when the e'enin' star is near, And the diamond-draps o'dew shall be her een sae clear; The violet's for modesty, which weel she fa's to wear : And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above, That to my latest breath o' life the band shall ne'er re

move:

And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

KIND ROBIN LO'ES ME.

TUNE-Robin lo'es me.

ROBIN is my only jo,

For Robin has the art to lo'e;
Sae to his suit I mean to bow,
Because I ken he lo'es me.
Happy, happy was the shower,
That led me to his birken bower,
Where first of love I fand the power,
And kenn'd that Robin lo'ed me.

They speak of napkins, speak of rings,
Speak of gluves and kissin' strings;
And name a thousand bonnie things,
And ca' them signs he lo'es me.
But I'd prefer a smack o' Rob,
Seated on the velvet fog,

To gifts as lang's a plaiden wab;

Because I ken he lo'es me.

He's tall and sonsie, frank and free,
Lo'ed by a', and dear to me;
Wi' him I'd live, wi' him I'd dee,
Because my Robin lo'es me.
My tittie Mary said to me,
Our courtship but a joke wad be,
And I or lang be made to see
That Robin didna lo'e me.

But little kens she what has been,
Me and my honest Rob between;
And in his wooing, O sae keen
Kind Robin is that lo'es me.
Then fly, ye lazy hours, away,
And hasten on the happy day,

When, Join your hands, Mess John will say,
And mak him mine that lo'es me.

Till then, let every chance unite
To fix our love and give delight,
And I'll look down on such wi' spite,
Wha doubt that Robin lo'es me.
O hey, Robin! quo she,
O hey, Robin! quo she,
O hey, Robin! quo she;
Kind Robin lo'es me.*

DIRGE OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF,

WHO WAS EXECUTED AFTER THE REBELLION OF

1745.

SON of the mighty and the free,
Loved leader of the faithful brave,

* From Herd's Collection, 1776.

Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee
To fill a nameless grave?

Oh, hadst thou slumber'd with the slain,
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
Even though on red Culloden's plain,
We then had mourn'd thee not.

But darkly closed thy morn of fame,

That morn whose sunbeams rose so fair: Revenge alone may breathe thy name, The watch-word of despair. Yet, oh, if gallant spirit's power

Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,
Last of a mighty line.

O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom;
Those beams that gild thy native walls
Are sleeping on thy tomb.

Spring on the mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air;
But the loved scenes may vainly smile-
Not e'en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle's sound
Is mixing with the torrent's roar ;
Unmark'd the red deer sport around-
Thou lead'st the chase no more.

Thy gates are closed, thy halls are still

Those halls where swell'd the choral strain; They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill, And all is hush'd again.

Thy bard his pealing harp has broke-
His fire, his joy of song, is past!

One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,
His saddest, and his last.