O look, my love! on ev'ry spray
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay:
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng,
And love inspires the melting song:
Then let the raptur'd notes arise,
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes;
And love my rising bosom warms,
And fills my soul with sweet alarms.

Oh, come, my love! Thy Colin's lay
With rapture calls, O come away!

Come while the muse this wreath shall twine
Around that modest brow of thine.

O hither haste, and with thee bring
That beauty blooming like the spring,
Those graces that divinely shine,

And charm this ravish'd heart of mine!

Burns speaks of the above as

"beautiful verses."

XI.

TWEEDSIDE.

Attributed to Lord Yester.-Born 1645; Died 1713.

When Maggy and I were acquaint
I carried my noddle fu' hie;
Nae lintwhite in a' the gay plain,
Nae gowdspink sae bonnie as she!
I whistled, I piped, and I sang;
I woo'd, but I cam' nae great speed:
Therefore I maun wander abroad,

And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.

To Maggy my love I did tell ;
My tears did my passion express :
Alas! for I lo'ed her ower weel,

And the women lo'e sic a man less.
Her heart it was frozen and cauld;
Her pride had my ruin decreed;
Therefore I maun wander abroad,
And lay my banes far frae the Tweed.

XII.

TWEEDSIDE.

R. Crawford.

What beauties does Flora disclose !
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisy nor sweet-blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field,
Not Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove,
With music enchant ev'ry bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,

And love while the feather'd folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare; Love's graces all round her do dwell; She's fairest, where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray, Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on sweet-winding Tay Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed.

" of this

Burns had been informed that the "Mary song was a Mary Stewart of the Castlemilk family; Scott, on the other hand, says that she was a Mary Lillias Scott, daughter of Walter Scott, Esq. of Harden, and a descendant of the celebrated "Flower of Yarrow. It is now supposed that the latter opinion is the correct

one.

XIII.

A RED, RED ROSE.

R. Burns.-Born 1759; Died 1796.

O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June,
O, my luve's like the melodie,
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

B

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
Sae deep in love am I ;

And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
O, I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while;
And I will come again, my luve,
Though it were ten thousand mile.

XIV.

OH! DINNA ASK ME GINILOE THEE.

John Dunlop.-Born 1755; Died 1820.

Oh! dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;

Troth I dar'na' tell :

Dinna ask me gin I lo'e thee;

Ask it o' yoursel'.

Oh ! dinna look sae sair at me,

For weel ye ken me true;

When ye gang to yon braw, braw town,
And bonnier lassies see,

O, dinna, Jamie, look at them,

Lest you should mind na me.

For I could never bide the lass,

That ye'd lo'e mair than me;

And O, I'm sure, my heart would break,
Gin ye'd prove false to me.

XV.

IN YON GARDEN.

In yon garden fine and gay,
Picking lilies a' the day,
Gathering flowers o' ilka hue,

I wistna then what love could do.

Where love is planted there it grows;
It buds and blooms like any rose;
It has a sweet and pleasant smell;
No flower on earth can it excel.

I put my hand into the bush,

And thought the sweetest rose to find;
But pricked my finger to the bone,

And left the sweetest rose behind.

A very old fragment, first printed in The Scots Musical Museum, a well-known work (commenced 1787,_ completed 1803), which owes much of its worth to Burns, who generously helped Johnson, an engraver in Edinburgh, the editor and publisher of it, in his patriotic task. Burns, although admitting that it has defects, says of it, "I will venture to prophecy that, to future ages, your Publication will be the text-book and standard of Scottish Song and Music. Under the new and luminous editorship of Mr. David Laing (Blackwood and Sons, 1853), it now contains a copious, almost endless, mass of annotations, elucidations, and anecdotes of the songs and song-writers of Scotland.