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MY PEGGY'S FACE.

TUNE- My Peggy's Face.

MY Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
Might charm the first of human kind.
I love my Peggy's angel air,
Her face so truly, heavenly fair,
Her native grace so void of art,
But I adore my Peggy's heart.

The lily's hue, the rose's dye,
The kindling lustre of an eye —
Who but owns their magic sway!
Who but knows they all decay!
The tender thrill, the pitying tear,
The generous purpose, nobly dear,
The gentle look, that rage disarms
These are all immortal charms.

ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER.

SENT WITH A SILHOUETTE PORTRAIT.

REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart,1

Of Stuart, a name once respected

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A name which to love was the mark of a true

heart,

But now 'tis despised and neglected.

Though something like moisture conglobes in my

A

eye,

Let no one misdeem me disloyal;

poor friendless wanderer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wanderer were royal.

My fathers that name have revered on a throne ; My fathers have fallen to right it;

Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it.

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join,

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry; Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine, Their title's avowed by my country.

1 Mr. Tytler had published, in 1759, An Inquiry, Historical and Critical, into the Evidence against Mary Queen of Scots.

But why of that epocha make such a fuss,
That gave us the Hanover stem?

If bringing them over was lucky for us,
I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them.

But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground!
Who knows how the fashions may alter?
The doctrine to-day that is loyalty sound,
To-morrow may bring us a halter!

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard,
A trifle scarce worthy your care;

But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard,
Sincere as a saint's dying prayer.

Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night;

But

you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, Your course to the latest is bright.

ON A YOUNG LADY

RESIDING ON THE BANKS OF THE SMALL RIVER DEVON, IN CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE INFANT YEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE.

Addressed to Miss Charlotte Hamilton, and intended for publication in Johnson's Museum. The

tune was a beautiful Highland air, entitled Bhanarach dhonn a chruidh, or the Pretty Milkmaid.

How pleasant the banks of the clear winding Devon,

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon

Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the

Ayr.

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower, In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the

dew,

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!

Oh spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes, With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn! And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn!

Let Bourbon exult in his gay-gilded lilies,
And England triumphant display her proud

rose;

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF LORD PRESIDENT DUNDAS.

The Lord President of the Court of Session (Dundas) died on the 13th December, and it seems to have been suggested to Burns by Mr. Charles Hay, advocate, that he should bring his Muse into play for the celebration of the event. There must have been some

reason beyond the merits of the President for Hay

having advised this step, and for Burns having stooped to adopt it.

the proud soul of He set to bewail

ing the decease of the great man in the usual style of the venal bards of the age of patronage, and, as might be expected, with no great success.

LONE on the bleaky hills the straying flocks Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering

rocks;

Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; The hollow caves return a sullen moan.

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves,
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves,
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye,
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly;

Where to the whistling blast and water's roar

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