Aft hae I stray'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the rose and woodbine twine, And hear ilk bird sing o' its love,

As fondly sae did I of mine: Wi' lightsome heart I pou't a rose,

Sae sweet upon its thorny tree; But my fause love has stown the rose,

And left the sharpest thorn-to me.

O blaw, ye flow'rs, your bonnie bloom,

And draw the wild birds to the burn! For Lumon promis'd me a ring,

And ye maun aid me should I mourn. O na, na, na, ye needna bloom!

My een are dim and drowsy worn: Ye bonnie birds, ye needna sing,

For Lumon never will return.

My Lumon's love, in broken sighs,

At dawning day by Doon ye’se hear; At mid-day, by the willow green,

For him I'll shed the silent tear. Sweet birds! I ken ye'll pity me,

And join me wi' a plaintive sang, While echo wakes, to aid the mane

I mak for him I lo'ed sae lang.

MARY'S DREAM. The moon had climb'd the highest hill

That rises o'er the source of Dee, And from the eastern summit shed

Her silver light on tow'r and tree; When Mary laid her down to sleep

Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When soft and low a voice she heard, Say—“ Mary, weep no more for me!” She from her pillow gently rais'd

Her head, to ask who there might be;
She saw young Sandy, shiv'ring stand,

With visage pale and hollow eye;
“ O Mary dear! cold is my clay,

" It lies beneath a stormy sea;
“ Far, far from thee I sleep in death,

“So, Mary, weep no more for me!
“ Three stormy nights and stormy days,

“ We toss'd upon the raging main,
“ And long we strove our bark to save,

“ But all our striving was in vain.
“ Even then, when horror chill'd my blood,

“ My heart was fill'd with love for thee:
“ The storm is past, and I at rest,

“So, Mary, weep no more for me! « O maiden dear! thyself prepare,

“ We soon shall meet upon that shore, “ Where love is free from doubt and care,

“ And thou and I shall part no more.”
Loud crow'd the cock, the shadow fled,

No more of Sandy could she see;
But soft the passing spirit said,

“ Sweet Mary, weep no more for me!” *

THE LEE RIGG.
WILL ye gang o'er the lee rig,

My ain kind dearie, 0); * 6 The Mary alluded to in this song, is generally supposed to be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the Laird of Airds, in Galloway. The Poet was a Mr. ALEXANDER LOWE, who like. wise wrote another beautiful song, called Pompey's Ghost.” He was a native of Galloway, and resided some time at Airds; but it appears that he afterwards emigrated to America. Little more is known respecting him.

Nae herd wi' kent or colly there,

Shall ever come to fear ye, 0; But lav'rock's whistling in the air

Shall woo, like me, their dearie, 0. While ithers herd their lambs and ewes,

And toil for warld's gear, my jo, Upon the lee my pleasure grows

Wi' thee, my kind dearie, 0.

Whare thro' the birks the burnie rows,

Aft hae I sat fu' cheerie, 0,
Upon the bonnie greensward howes,

Wi' thee, my kind dearie, 0.
I've courted till I've heard the craw

Of honest Chanticleerie, 0,
Yet never miss'd my sleep ava,

Whan wi' my kind dearie, O.

While in this weary warld of wae,

This wilderness sae dreary, 0,
What makes me blithe, and keeps me sae?

'Tis thee, my kind dearie, 0.*

MY NATIVE CALEDONIA.

TUNE_" The Dusky Glen.” SAIR, sair was my heart, when I parted frae my Jean, And sair, sair 1 sigh’d, while the tears stood in my een; For my daddie is but poor, and my fortune is sae sma', It gars me leave my native Caledonia. When I think on days gane, and sae happy I hae been, When wandering wi' my dearie, where the primrose

blaws unseen, I'm wae to leave my lassie, an' my daddie's cot ava, Or to leave the healthfu' breeze of Caledonia. But wherever I wander, still happy be my Jean, Nae care disturb her bosom, where peace has ever been: Then tho' ills on ills befa' me, for her I'll bear them a', Tho'aft I'll heave a sigh for Caledonia. But should riches e'er be mine, and my Jeanie still be

true, Then blaw, ye fav’ring breezes, till my native land I view; Then I'll kneel on Scotia's shore, while the heartfelt

tear shall fa', And never leave my Jean, nor Caledonia.

* The two first stanzas of this song were written by FERGUSSON ;-the rest of it is commonly attributed to Mr. WILLIAM Reid, Bookseller in Glasgow Gentleman to whom we are indebted for several very pleasing songs. It is evident, however, that some portion of the above verses attributed to him, particularly the first four lines of the last stanza, are adopted from an excellent song under the same title, much older than poor FERGUSSON'S.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. JOHN Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your head's turn'd bald, John,

Your locks are like the snow,
Yet, blessings on your frosty pow,

John Anderson, my Jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When nature first began
To try her cannie hand, John,

Her master-work was man;
And you amang them a' John,

Sae trig frae tap to toe, .
She prov'd to be nae journey-work,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

Ye were my first conceit,
And ye need na think it strange, John,

Tho? I ca' ye trim and neat;
Tho' some folks say ye're auld, John,

I never think ye so,
But I think ye're aye the same to me,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We've seen our bairns' bairns, And yet, my dear John Anderson,

I'm happy in your arms; And sae are ye in mine, John

I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no, Tho' the days are gane that we have seen,

John Anderson, my jo.