THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. THE Lawland maids gang trig and fine, My hearty, smiling Highland lassie; But bloom of youth still bless my lassie. Than ony lass in burrow-town, Wha mak their cheeks wi' patches mottie, O my bonnie, &c. Beneath the brier or birken bush, O'er highest heathery hills I'll stend, There's nane shall dare, by deed or word, The mountains clad with purple bloom, MEG O' THE MILL. TUNE-"O bonnie lass will ye lie in a barrack?" O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley miller. The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy; A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady: The laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl: She's left the guid fellow, and ta'en the churl. The miller he hecht her, a heart leal and loving: The laird did address her wi' matter mair moving; A fine pacing horse, wi' a clear chained bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailin'! A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl! THE LEA RIG. WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star, In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, Although the night were ne'er sae wild, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O. The hunter lo'es the morning sun, THE TRAVELLER'S RETURN. WHEN silent time, wi' lightly foot, As I drew near my ancient pile, My ivy'd tow'rs now met my view, And grat to see the lad come back, I ran through ilka weel kent room, I steek'd the door, and sabb'd aloud, A new sprung race o' motley kind, Ah no! your fathers' names grow there- MARK YONDER POMP OF COSTLY FASHION. MARK yonder pomp of costly fashion, The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art. May draw the wond'ring gaze, And courtly grandeur bright The fancy may delight, But never, never can come near the heart. But did you see my dearest Chloris, Lovely as yonder sweet op'ning flower is, O then the heart alarming, In Love's delightful fetters she chains the willing Ambition would disown The world's imperial crown, And feel thro' ev'ry vein Love's raptures roll. * *This song was composed on the lady who is celebrated in Craigieburn Wood, to whom BURNS assures us we have been indebted for many of his best songs. In a letter to Mr. THOMSON, he says, "do you think that the sober, gin-horse routine of existence, could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy-could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos, equal to the genius of your book? No! no!-Whenever I want to be more than ordinary in song; to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs; do you imagine I fast and pray for the celestial emanation? Tout au contraire! I have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his own use was invented by the divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. I put myself in the regimen of admiring a fine woman; and in proportion to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus; and the witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon!" The following is the original of this song, and is undoubtedly the best. Sleeps't thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature; Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud, which Nature Waters wi' the tear o' joy. Now thro' the leafy woods, And by the reeking floods, Wild Nature's tenants, freely, gladly stray. The lintwhite in his bower Chants o'er the breathing flower; The lav'rock to the sky Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning, Banishes ilk darksome shade, |