COWDENKNOWES.

CRAWFORD.

TUNE-The Brume o' Cowdenknowes.

WHEN summer comes, the swains on Tweed
Sing their successful loves;
Around the ewes the lambkins feed,
And music fills the groves.

But my loved song is then the broom
So fair on Cowdenknowes;
For sure so sweet, so soft a bloom
Elsewhere there never grows!

There Colin tuned his aiten reed,
And won my yielding heart;
No shepherd e'er that dwelt on Tweed
Could play with half such art.

He sung of Tay, of Forth, of Clyde,
The hills and dales around,
Of Leader-haughs and Leader-side;
Oh, how I bless'd the sound!

Yet more delightful is the broom
So fair on Cowdenknowes;
For sure so fresh, so fair a bloom,

Elsewhere there never grows.

gay,

Not Teviot braes, so green and
May with this broom compare;
Not Yarrow's banks, in flow'ry May,
Nor the Bush aboon Traquair.

More pleasing far are Cowdenknowes,
My peaceful happy home,

Where I was wont to milk my yowes
At even, among the broom.

Ye powers, that haunt the woods and plains,
Where Tweed with Teviot flows,
Convey me to the best of swains,
And my loved Cowdenknowes !*

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

BURNS.

TUNE-The Mill, Mill, O.

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
And eyes again wi' pleasure beam'd,
That had been blear'd wi' mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger;

My humble knapsack a' my wealth;
but honest sodger.

A

poor

A leal light heart beat in my breast,
My hands unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy;
I thought upon the witching smile,
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy oft I courted.
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling?
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my ee was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom !

* From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.

My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain wad be thy lodger;
I've served my king and country lang:
Tak pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gazed on me,
And lovelier grew than ever;
Quoth she, A sodger ance I loved,
Forget him will I never.

Our humble cot and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake o't;
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gazed-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale as ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By Him, who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded;

I am the man! and thus

may still

True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quoth she, My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailin plenish'd fairly;

Then come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly.

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,

The farmer ploughs the manor;

But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger:
Remember he's his country's stay,
In day and hour o' danger.*

"Burns, I have been informed," says a clergyman of Dumfries-shire, in a letter to Mr George Thomson, editor of the Select Melodies of Scotland," was one summer evening in the inn at Brownhill, with a couple

THE WEE, WEE GERMAN LAIRDIE.

WHA the deil hae we gotten for a king,

But a wee, wee German lairdie?
And, when we gaed to bring him,
He was delving in his yardie:
Sheughing kail, and laying leeks,
But the hose, and but the breeks;
And up his beggar duds he cleeks-
This wee, wee German lairdie.

And he's clapt down in our gudeman's chair,
The wee, wee German lairdie ;
And he's brought fouth o' foreign trash,
And dibbled them in his yardie.
He's pu'd the rose o' English loons,
And broken the harp o' Irish clowns;
But our thistle taps will jag his thumbs-
This wee, wee German lairdie.

Come up amang our Highland hills,
Thou wee, wee German lairdie,
And see the Stuarts' lang-kail thrive
We dibbled in our yardie:

And if a stock ye dare to pu',
Or haud the yoking o' a plough,

We'll break your sceptre o'er your mou',
Thou wee bit German lairdie.

Our hills are steep, our glens are deep,
Nae fitting for a yardie;

And our Norland thistles winna pu',

Thou wee bit German lairdie:
And we've the trenching blades o' weir,

Wad prune ye o' your German gear-
We'll pass ye 'neath the claymore's shear,
Thou feckless German lairdie!

of friends, when a poor way-worn soldier passed the window. Of a sudden it struck the poet to call him in, and get the recital of his adventures; after hearing which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction, not unusual to him. He was lifted to the region where he had his garland and his singing-robes about him, and the result was this admirable song he sent you for The Mill, Mill, O.'"

Auld Scotland, thou'rt ower cauld a hole
For nursin' siccan vermin;

But the very dougs o' England's court
They bark and howl in German.
Then keep thy dibble in thy ain hand,
Thy spade but and thy yardie;
For wha the deil hae we gotten for a king,
But a wee, wee German lairdie ? *

WHEN I upon thy bosom lean,

And fondly clasp thee a' my ain,

I glory in the sacred ties

That made us ane, wha ance were twain.
A mutual flame inspires us baith,

The tender look, the meltin' kiss:
Even years shall ne'er destroy our love,
But only gie us change o' bliss.

Hae I a wish? it's a' for thee!
I ken thy wish is me to please.
Our moments pass sae sweet away,
That numbers on us look and gaze;
Weel pleased they see our happy days,
Nor envy's sell finds aught to blame;
And aye, when weary cares arise,

Thy bosom still shall be my hame.

A Jacobite song, evidently written immediately after the accession of George I., in 1714.

†This very beautiful song possesses an external distinction, on account of its having been eulogized by Burns, who, in consequence of hearing it sung at a rustic merry-meeting, commenced a series of lively epistles to its author, which may be found in his works.

Lapraik was portioner of Dalfram, near Muirkirk, in the eastern part of Ayrshire. He had attained a considerable age during the youth of his illustrious correspondent. The occasion of the song was this" Lapraik, in a moment when he forgot whether he was rich or poor, became security for some person concerned in a ruinous speculation called the Ayr Bank, and was compelled to sell the little estate on which his name had been sheltered for many centuries. His securities were larger than the produce of his ground covered, and he found his way into the jail of Ayr when he was sixty years old. In this uncomfortable abode, his son told me, he composed this song: it is reconcilable with the account which he gave to Burns-that he made it one day when he and his wife had been mourning over their misfortunes."-Cunningham's Songs of Scotland, vol. iii. p. 282.