His ain true love forsaken;
Which gars me sair to greet the snood
I lost amang the bracken.*

THE PLOUGHMAN.

TUNE The Ploughman.

THE ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
And a' his wark's at leisure;
And, when that he comes hame at e'en,
He kisses me wi' pleasure.

Up wi't now, my ploughman lad!
Up wi't now, my ploughman !
Of a' the lads that I do see,

Commend me to the ploughman.

Now the blooming spring comes on,
He takes his yoking early,

And, "whistling o'er the furrowed land," +
He goes to fallow clearly.

When my ploughman comes hame at e'en,

He's often wet and wearie;

Cast aft the wet, put on the dry,

And gae to bed, my dearie.

From the Scots Musical Museum, Part I., 1787. Ritson, however, who gives it in his "Scottish Songs," 1794, professes to have copied it from" Napier's Collection," which was probably published earlier than the Musical Museum, though not so early as Herd's Collection (1776,) in which this song does not appear.

† A Scottish phrase of high exultation, which seems to be only used in songs:

I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will wash his owerlay,
And I will make my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.

Merry but, and merry ben,
Merry is my ploughman;
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the ploughman.

Plough yon hill, and plough yon dale,
Plough yon faugh and fallow;

Wha winna drink the ploughman's health,
Is but a dirty fellow ! *

O, AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.

BURNS.

TUNE-O, ay my Wife she dang me.

O, AY my wife she dang me,
And aft my wife she banged me!
If ye gie a woman a' her will,
Gude faith, she'll soon owergang ye.

On peace and rest my mind was bent,
And, fool I was, I married;
But never honest man's intent
As cursedly miscarried!

O, ay my wife, &c.

Some sair o' comfort still at last,

When a' thir days are dune, man—

*From Herd's Collection, 1776. A different version is in the Musical Museum, Part II.; and there is another, very much corrupted, in Cunningham's Songs of Scotland.

My pains o' hell on earth is past,
I'm sure o' heaven aboon, man.
O, ay my wife, &c.*

ANNA.

BURNS.

TUNE-Banks of Banna.

YESTREEN I had a pint o' wine,
A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The raven locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,
Rejoicing ower his manna,
Was naething to my hinny bliss,
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs tak the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah!
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,

While dying raptures, in her arms,
I give and take with Anna.

Awa, thou flaunting god of day!
Awa, thou pale Diana !

Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, night,
Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a';

* From the Scots Musical Museum, Part VI.. 1803.

And bring an angel pen to write
My transports with my Anna.*

ON WI' THE TARTAN.

H. AINSLIE.

CAN ye loe, my dear lassie,
The hills wild and free,
Whar the sang o' the shepherd
Gars a' ring wi' glee?

Or the steep rocky glens,

Where the wild falcons bide!

Then on wi' the tartan,
And fy let us ride!

Can ye loe the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er war in rigs?
Or on the bonnie loune knowes
Where the sweet robin biggs?
Or the sang o' the lintie,

Whan wooin his bride?

Then on wi' the tartan,
And fy let us ride!

Can ye loe the burn, lassie,
That loups amang linns ?
Or the bonnie green howmes
Where it cannilie rins?

Wi' a cantie bit housie,
Sae snug by its side?
Then on wi' the tartan,

And fy let us ride !

This song, like "Highland Mary," affords a strong proof of the power which poetry possesses of raising and subliming objects naturally mean and impure. Highland Mary was the dairy-maid of Coilsfield; Anna is said to have been something still meaner in the scale of society.

THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

MRS DUGALD STEWART.

THE tears I shed must ever fall:
I mourn not for an absent swain ;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead:

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh, and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb :
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears

Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of withered joy;

The flatt'ring veil is rent aside;

The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew

The hours once tinged in transport's dye; The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the past to agony.