The Master and the Brotherhood
Would a' be glad to see you;
For me I would be mair than proud
To share the mercies wi' you.

If Death, then, wi' skaith, then,
Some mortal heart is hechtin',
Inform him, and storm him,
That Saturday you'll fecht him.

Mossgiel, An. M. 5790.

ROBERT BURNS.

DEAR

TO A PAINTER.

I'll gie ye some advice

You'll tak it no uncivil:

You shouldna paint at angels mair,
But try and paint the devil.

To paint an angel's kittle wark,

Wi' auld Nick there's less danger;
You'll easy draw a weel-kent face,
But no sae weel a stranger.

LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER.

YOU'RE Welcome, Willie Stewart;

You're welcome, Willie Stewart;
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May,
That's half sae welcome's thou art.

Come, bumpers high, express your joy,
The bowl we maun renew it;

The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben,
To welcome Willie Stewart.

4

May foes be strang, and friends be slack,
Ilk action may he rue it ;

May woman on him turn her back,
That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart !

ON MR. W. CRUIKSHANK,

OF THE HIGH SCHOOL, EDINBURGH.
HONEST Will to heaven is gane,
And mony shall lament him;
His faults they a' in Latin lay,
In English nane e'er kent them.

SONGS.

THE LASS O BALLOCHMYLE.

TUNE- MISS FORBES'S FAREWELL

BANKS.'

ΤΟ BANFF, OR ETTRICK

'TWAS even the dewy fields were green,
On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In every glen the Mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while :
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild,
When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in a lonely wild :

But Woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile ;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd
By the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed

That ever rose on Scotland's plain!
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine ;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine;

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day has joys divine,

With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle.

SONG OF DEATH.

A GAELIC AIR.

Scene.-A field of battle.

Time of the day-Evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in

the song.

FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye

skies,

Now gay with the bright setting sun!

Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties, Our race of existence is run!

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave !

Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant ! but know, No terrors hast thou for the brave!

Thou strik'st the dull peasant—he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name :

Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark!
He falls in the blaze of his fame!

In the field of proud honour-our swords in our
hands,

Our King and our Country to save

While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not rest with the brave!

MY AIN KIND DEARIE 0.

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and wearie O;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O
If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.