I'd lock'd my heart in a case of gold,
And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.
Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,
And set upon the nurse's knee,
And I myself were dead and gane,
And the green grass growing over me

THE WEE THING.

MACNEIL.

TUNE-Bonnie Dundee.

SAW ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing?
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea?

Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin?
Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw-tree?

Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;
Dark is the blue o' her saft-rolling ee;
Red red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses :
Whar could my wee thing wander frae me?—

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down on yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloamin,
Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw-tree.

Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
Dark was the blue o' her saft-rolling ee;
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses;
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me!-

It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing,
It was na my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart! and modest her nature!
She never loed onie till ance she loed me.

*This last line is substituted from an old nurse's copy, for one less delicate and pathetic, which has always hitherto been printed. The song appeared first in the Tea-Table Miscellany, marked with the signature Z, indicating that the editor did not know its age.

Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary;
Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee:
Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to thee!

It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary;
It was, then, your true love I met by the tree:
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,
Sweet were the kisses that she gae to me.-

Sair gloom'd his dark brow-blood-red his cheek grew-
Wild flash'd the fire frae his red-rolling ee!
Ye'se rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your
scorning:

Defend ye, fause traitor! for loudly ye lie.

Awa wi' beguiling! cried the youth, smiling:
Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee;
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing-
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark-rolling ee!

Is it my wee thing! is it mine ain thing!
Is it my true love here that I see !-

O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me;
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!

OH tell me, oh tell me, bonnie young lassie,
Oh tell me, young lassie, how for to woo?
Oh tell me, oh tell me, bonnie sweet lassie,
Oh tell me, sweet lassie, how for to woo?
Say, maun I roose your cheeks like the morning?
Lips like the roses fresh moisten'd wi' dew?

Say, maun I roose your een's pawkie scorning?
Oh tell me, oh tell me, how for to woo?

Far hae I wander'd to see thee, dear lassie !
Far hae I ventured across the saut sea!
Far bae I ventured ower muirland and mountain,
Houseless and weary, slept cauld on the lea!
Ne'er bae I tried yet to mak luve to ony,

For ne'er loved I ony till ance I loved you;
Now we're alane in the green wood sae bonnie,
Oh tell me, oh tell me, how for to woo?

What care I for your wand'ring, young laddie!
What care I for your crossing the sea!
It was nae for naething ye left puir young Peggy;
It was for my tocher ye cam to court me.
Say, hae ye gowd to busk me aye gaudy?
Ribbons, and pearlins, and breist-knots enew?
A house that is cantie, wi' walth in't, my laddie?
Without this ye never need try for to woo.

I hae nae gowd to busk ye aye gaudy!

I canna buy pearlins and ribbons enew! I've naething to brag o' house or o' plenty! I've little to gie but a heart that is true. I cam na for tocher-I ne'er heard o' ony; I never loved Peggy, nor e'er brak my vow: I've wander'd, puir fule, for a face fause as bonnie! I little thocht this was the way for to woo!

Hae na ye roosed my cheeks like the morning?

Hae na ye roosed my cherry-red mou? Hae na ye come ower sea, muir, and mountain? What mair, my dear Johnnie, need ye for to woo? Far hae ye wander'd, I ken, my dear laddie!

Now that ye've found me, there's nae cause to rue; Wi' health we'll hae plenty-I'll never gang gaudy: I ne'er wish'd for mair than a heart that is true.

She hid her fair face in her true lover's bosom ; The saft tear of transport fill'd ilk lover's ee; The burnie ran sweet by their side as they sabbit, And sweet sang the mavis abune on the tree.

He clasp'd her, he press'd her, he ca'd her his hinnie,
And aften he tasted her hinnie-sweet mou;
And aye, 'tween ilk kiss, she sighed to her Johnnie-
Oh laddie! oh laddie! weel weel can ye woo!

O WHA IS SHE THAT LOES ME.

BURNS.

TUNE-" Morag."

O WHA is she that loes me,
And has my heart a-keeping?
O sweet is she that loes me,
As dews o' simmer weeping,
In tears the rose-bud steeping:
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;

O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

If thou shalt meet a lassie

In grace and beauty charming,
That e'en thy chosen lassie,

Erewhile thy breast sae warming,
Had ne'er sic powers alarming;
O that's, &c.

If thou hadst heard her talking,
And thy attentions plighted,
That ilka body talking,

But her, by thee is slighted;
And if thou art delighted;
O that's, &c.

If thou hast met this fair one,
When frae her thou hast parted;

If

every other fair one

But her thou hast deserted,

And thou art broken-hearted;

Oh that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;

Oh that's the queen of womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her.

THE OLD MAN'S SONG.*

THE REV. JOHN SKINNER.

TUNE-Dumbarton's Drums.

O! WHY should old age so much wound us, O?
There is nothing in't all to confound us, O ;
For how happy now am I,

With my old wife sitting by,

And our bairns and our oyes all around us, O.

We began in the world wi' naething, O,

And we've jogged on and toiled for the ae thing, O;

*The author of this excellent song, of whose mild and well-regulated mind it is a most faithful reflection, was a clergyman of the Scottish Episcopal Church at Longside, a village in Aberdeenshire, about six miles west from Peterhead. For the last fifty or sixty years of a life protracted beyond the usual span, this venerable man lived in a style of almost apostolic simplicity, in a lowly cottage, or farm-house of the old fashion, called Linshart, half a mile from the village where his little straw-clad chapel reared its modest form. The editor of this collection visited the place in 1826, when he had the satisfaction of finding the whole domicile in precisely the same order as when the poet lived in it. The primitive simplicity of the whole details furnished a most admirable commentary on the humble circumstances of the Episcopal clergy during the period of their depression, which succeeded the insurrection of 1745. The walls were, as the song relates," not of stone and lime"-the floor was of earth-the chairs, tables, and beds, were composed of plain fir, or oak-the chimneys, according to a fashion still universal in the cottages of Buchan, were unprovided with grates. Around the walls of the principal room hung portraits, in watercolours, of the poet, his wife, and children,-taken seventy years ago by a wandering artist, and now almost smoked out of countenance. In that humble place, during the period when it was unlawful for an Episcopalian clergyman to perform divine service to above four persons, Skinner had often read prayers and preached, with his own family around him, and his little congregation arranged on the outside of an open window-an expedient to elude the terms of the penal act.

It is told of this venerable man, that when he died, in 1808, he had the satisfaction of seeing not only his "oyes around him," but the children of these oyes. Some time before his death, he paid a visit with some of his family, when it was found that there were four John Skinners in company, all in direct descent; namely, the poet himself-his son, the late Bishop of Aberdeen-the present bishop-and an infant son of the latter right reverend gentleman.