CRAIGIE-BURN WOOD.

SWEET fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blythe awakes the morrow;
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a wearie wight can please,
And care his bosom wringing.

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

If thou refuse to pity me,

If thou shalt love anither,

When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they'll wither. *

WHAT AILS YOU PATE.

TUNE-"For a' that an' a' that."

WHAT ails you now, my daintie Pate,
Ye winna wed an' a' that?

• This song, says BURNS, "was composed on a passion which a Mr. GILLESPIE, a particular friend of mine, had for a Miss LORI MER, afterwards a Mrs. WHELPDALE. The young lady was born at Craigie-burn Wood."

Craigie-burn Wood is situated on the banks of the river Moffat, and about three miles distant from the village of that name, celebrated for its medicinal waters. The woods of Craigie-burn and of Dumcrief, were at one time favourite haunts of our poet. It was there he met the Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, and there he conceived several of his beautiful lyrics.

Say, are ye fley'd, or are ye blate,
To tell your love an' a' that?
To kiss an' clap, an' a' that?
O fy for shame, an' a' that,
To spend your life without a wife;
'Tis no the gate ava that.

Ere lang you will grow auld an' frail,
Your haffets white an' a' that;
An' whare's the Meg, the Kate, or Nell,
Will hae you syne wi' a' that?
Runkl'd brow an' a' that;
Wizzen'd face an' a' that;

Wi' beard sae grey, there's nane will hae
A kiss frae you, an' a' that.

O stand na up wi' whare an' how,
Wi' ifs an' buts an' a' that;
Wi' feckless scruples not a few:
Pu' up your heart an' a' that.
Crousely crack an' a' that;
Come, try your luck an' a' that:

The Hiney-Moon will ne'er gang done,
If guidit weel an' a' that.

There's monie lass baith douce an' fair,
Fu' sonsy, fier, an' a' that,
Wad suit you to a very hair,
Sae clever they're an' a' that;
Handsome, young, an' a' that,
Sae complaisant an' a' that;
Sae sweet an' braw, an' gude an' a';
What ails the chield at a' that?

Come, look about, an' wale a wife,
Like honest fouk an' a' that;
An' lead a cheerfu' virtuous life;
Hae plenty, peace, an' a' that;

A thrifty wife an' a' that,
An' bonnie bairns an' a' that;
Syne in your ha' shall pleasures a'
Smile ilka day an' a' that. *

* ALEXANDER DOUGLAS, the author of this song, is a native of Strathmiglo, on the Eden, in Fifeshire, where, we believe, he still resides. His parents, honest, sober, and industrious, were only able to give him that ordinary education, which, in this part of the United Kingdom, is generally within the reach of the poorest. His own genius and steady application supplied, in some degree, what fortune withheld. His parents indulged his taste for reading, for which he had, from his earliest years, discovered a particular fondness, and he himself carefully preserved the few pence, which he was then able to earn by assisting the weavers in the village, till he found an opportunity of purchasing some of the cheap pamphlets, which are hawked about by pedlars. In the summer he was employed as a cow-herd; and the leisure of this humble occupation afforded him some opportunities of reading, which he carefully embraced. At the age of fourteen, he was put apprentice to a linen weaver in his native village, who, being a man of considerable knowledge, was useful to young DOUGLAS in directing his studies. When this period had nearly expired, his master went to reside in Pathhead, near Kirkcaldy, whither DOUGLAS accompanied him. After leaving Pathhead, he married; but the cares of a family did not interrupt his studies, for he continued the practice of reading, only at his regular intervals of leisure, and composed, or in his own language, “spun his verses," while he worked at his loom; and as he warmed with the progress of his song, his shuttle acquired a peculiar velocity, which more than overbalanced the loss of the short time that was necessary to commit the verses to a slate. In the year 1806, by the advice of some of his friends, he was induced to publish a volume of his poems, some of which possess considerable me rit, and abound with humourous but exact descriptions of rustic manners and customs, which are now nearly worn out,

THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWES.

How blythe was I ilk morn to see
My swain come o'er the hill!
He leap'd the burn, and flew to me,
I met him wi' good will.

O, the broom, the bonnie bonnie broom,
The broom of the Cowdenknowes!
I wish I were wử my dear swain,
Wi' his pipe and my ewes.

I neither wanted ewe nor lamb,
While his flocks near me lay;
He gather'd in my sheep at night,
And cheer'd me a' the day.

O, the broom, &c.

He tun'd his pipe and reed sae sweet,
The birds stood list'ning by;
Ev'n the dull cattle stood and gaz'd,
Charm'd wi' his melody.

O, the broom, &c.

While thus we spent our time, by turns,
Betwixt our flocks and play,
I envied not the fairest dame,
Though e'er sae rich and gay.
O, the broom, &c.

Hard fate! that I should banish'd be,
Gang heavily, and mourn,
Because I lov'd the kindest swain

That ever yet was born.

O, the broom, &c.

He did oblige me ev'ry hour;
Could I but faithfu' be?

He staw my heart; could I refuse
Whate'er he ask'd of me?

O, the broom, &c.

My doggie, and my little kit,
That held my wee soup whey,
My plaidie, broach, and crooked stick,
Maun now lie useless by.

O, the broom, &c.

Adieu, ye Cowdenknowes, adieu!
Fareweel a' pleasures there!
Ye gods, restore me to my swain,
It's a' I crave or care.

O, the broom, &c.

THE ROSY BRIER.

TUNE-" I wish my love was in a mire."

O BONNIE was yon rosy brier,

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man; And bonnie she, and, ah! how dear! It shaded frae the e'enin' sun.

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew,

How pure amang the leaves sae green; But purer was the lover's vow

They witness'd in their shade yestreen.

All in its rude and prickly bower,

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair; But love is far a sweeter flower

Amid life's thorny path o' care.

The pathless wild, and wimplin burn,
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine;
And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn,
Its joys and griefs alike resign.