O, dear Bess, I hardly knew,
When I cam' by, your gown sae new;
I think you've got it wet wi' dew.
Quoth she, That's like a gawkie!

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane :
Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,
And tell it to your dawtie.

The guilt appeared in Jamie's cheek:
He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,
If I should gang anither gate,

I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue
That ever Maggie's face he knew,
Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.

As they gaed ower the muir, they sang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.*

JOHN HAY'S BONNY LASSIE.
TUNE-John Hay's Bonnie Lassie.

By smooth-winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cried he, Oh, hey! maun I still live pining
Mysell thus away, and daurna discover

Το my bonny Hay, that I am her lover!

Nae mair it will hide; the flame waxes stranger ;
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer:
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture;
May be, ere we part, my vows may content her.

This song is stated by Mr Cunningham, in his Songs of Scotland, to have been written by the Rev. Mr Muirhead, (minister, about fifty years ago, of the parish of Urr, in Galloway,) upon a youthful adventure of his It appears in Herd's Collection, 1776.

own.

She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good-morrow:
The sward of the mead, enamell'd with daisies,
Looks wither'd and dead, when twined of her graces.

But if she appear where verdure invite her,
The fountains run clear, and the flowers smell the sweeter.
'Tis heaven to be by, when her wit is a-flowing:
Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glowing.

The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded;
Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded:
I'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye;
For a' my desire is John Hay's bonny lassie.*

ANNIE.

BURNS.

TUNE-Allan Water.

By Allan stream I chanced to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi,

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.-I have found it asserted by a credible tradition in Roxburghshire, that this song was written by a working joiner, in honour of a daughter of John, first Marquis of Tweeddale, who is here familiarly called by his simple name, John Hay. She was a sister of the second Marquis, who, under his junior title of Lord Yester, is usually given as the author of the first version of " Tweedside."

The first Marquis of Tweeddale had two daughters, Lady Margaret and Lady Jean; but, Burns having somewhere mentioned, that the song was written in honour of one who was afterwards Countess of Roxburghe, we are enabled to set forward the eldest, Lady Margaret, as the heroine. We are further enabled, by Mr Wood's Peerage, to state the probable era of the song. Lady Margaret Hay, wife of the third Earl of Roxburghe, was a widow, at the age of twenty-five, in the year 1682. Allowing from thirteen to five-and-twenty as the utmost range of age during which she could be celebrated as " John Hay's Bonny Lassie," the song must have been written between the years 1670 and 1682, probably nearer the first era than the last.

It may be mentioned as a remarkable circumstance regarding this interesting lady, that she survived her husband, in uninterrupted widowhood, the amazingly long period of seventy-one years. She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, on the 23d of January, 1753, at the age of ninety-six, after having seen out several generations of her shortlived descendants; the third person in descent being then in possession of the honours of Roxburghe. Her husband was one of the unfortunate persons who were drowned at Yarmouth-roads, on the occasion of the shipwreck of the Gloucester frigate, which was bringing the Duke of York down to Scotland, May 1682.

The winds were whisp'ring through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready:
I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthful pleasures many;
And the wild-wood echoes rang-

aye

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie !

O, happy be the woodbine bower;
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I meet my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever!
While many a kiss the seal impress'd,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae ;
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheerie, through her short'ning day,
Is Autumn in her weeds of yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure? *

SCOTIA'S SONS HAE AYE BEEN FREE.

M'PHAIL.

TUNE-Andrew and his cuttie Gun.

BLYTHE, blythe, around the nappie,
Let us join in social glee;

While we're here we'll bae a drappie-
Scotia's sons hae aye been free.

"I walked out," says Burns, "with the Museum in my hand, (Johnson's Musical Museum,) and turning up Allan Water,' the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air: so I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote one to suit the measure."

Our auld forbears, when ower their yill,
And cantie bickers round did ca',
Forsooth, they cried, anither gill!
For sweirt we are to gang awa.

Some hearty cock wad then hae sung
An auld Scotch sonnet aff wi' glee,
Syne pledged his cogue: the chorus rung,
Auld Scotia and her sons are free.

Thus cracks, and jokes, and sangs, gaed roun',
Till morn the screens o' light did draw:
Yet, dreich to rise, the carles roun'
Cried, Deoch an doras, then awa!

The landlord then the nappie brings,
And toasts, Fu' happy a' may be,
Syne tooms the cogue: the chorus rings,
Auld Scotia's sons shall aye be free.

Then like our dads o' auld lang syne,
Let social glee unite us a',

Aye blythe to meet, our mou's to weet,
But aye as sweirt to gang awa.

THERE'S NAE LUCK ABOUT

THE HOUSE.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

BUT are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weil?

Is this a time to think o' wark?

Ye jauds, fling bye your

wheel.

For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',

There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa.

Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak-I'll to the key,
And see him come ashore.

Rise up and make a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton goun,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.

Mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-
He likes to see them braw.

There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weil may fare.

My turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockins pearl-blue-
It's a to pleasure our gudeman,

For he's baith leal and true.

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue;
His breath's like cauler air;

His very fit has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downricht dizzy wi' the thoucht:
In troth I'm like to greet.*

*From Herd's Collection, 1776.