THE WINTER IT IS PAST.

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

FRAGMENT.

HIER 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 bonie mou!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner !

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT.

TUNE- Captain O'Kean.'

THE small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning,
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale;
The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning,
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale:
But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair,
While the lingering moments are number'd by care?
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing,
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair.
The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice,
A King or a Father to place on his throne?
His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys,
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none.

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn,
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn :
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial,
Alas! can I make you no sweeter return?

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE.
TUNE- Bonnie Dundee.'

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles,
The pride of the place and it's 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',

THE TARBOLTON LASSES.

IF ye gae up to yon hill-tap,

Ye'll there see bonie Peggy; She kens her father is a laird,

And she forsooth's a leddy.

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courting.

Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak a look o' Mysie;
She's dour and din, a deil within,
But aiblins she may please ye.

If she be shy, her sister try,

Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny,
If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense-
She kens hersel she's bonie.

As

ye gae up by yon hill-side,
Speer in for bonie Bessy;
She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.

There's few sae bony, nane sae gude,
In a' King George' dominion;
If ye should doubt the truth o' this-
It's Bessy's ain opinion!

THE TARBOLTON LASSES.

IN Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a', man;

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a', man.

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare 't,
Braid money to tocher them a', man,

To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonie a lass or as braw, man,

But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a', man.

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man.

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien',
A hint o' a rival or twa, man,

The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man.

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man,
The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board,
If he canna get her at a', man.

Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a', man:

Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA.

If I should detail the pick and the wale
O' lasses that live here awa, man,

The fault wad be mine, if they didna shine,
The sweetest and best o' them a', man.

1 lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man,
For making o' rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a', man.

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,

Nor ha'e 't in her power to say na, man,
For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure,
My stomach's as proud as them a', man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,
O' pairs o' guid breeks I ha'e twa, man,
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.

My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,
Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,
A ten-shilling's hat, a Holland cravat ;

There are no mony poets sae braw, man.

I never had frien's, weel stockit in means,
To leave me a hundred or twa, man,
Nae weel tochered aunts, to wait on their drants,
And wish them in hell for it a', man.

I never was canny for hoarding o' money,
Or claughtin't together at a', man,

I've little to spend, and naething to lend,
But deevil a shilling I awe, man.

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245

MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS UPON'T.