By Ochtertyre there grows the aik,
On Yarrow braes the birken shaw ;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw
Blythe, blythe, &c.

Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn;

She trippit by the banks o' Earn,
As licht's a bird upon a thorn.

Her bonnie face it was as meek
As onie lamb upon a lee ;

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet,
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee.

The Hieland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lawlands I hae been;

But Phemie was the blythest lass

That ever trode the dewy green.*

BEHOLD THE HOUR, THE BOAT
ARRIVE.

BURNS.

TUNE-Oran Gaoil.

BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive ;
Thou goest, thou darling of my heart!
Sever'd from thee, can I survive?

But fate has will'd, and we must part.
I'll often greet this surging swell,
Yon distant isle will often hail :
"E'en here I took my last farewell,
There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."

Along the solitary shore,

While flitting sea-fowl round me cry,
Across the rolling, dashing roar,

I'll westward turn my wistful eye:

Written by Burns, while on a visit to Sir William Murray at Ochtertyre, Perthshire, on Miss Euphemia Murray of Lintrose, whose beauty had occasioned her to be popularly called "the Flower of Strathmore."

Happy, thou Indian grove, I'll say,
Where now my Nancy's path may be !
While through thy sweets she loves to stray,
Oh, tell me, does she muse on me?

THE AULD MAN.

BURNS.

Written to an East Indian air.

BUT lately seen in gladsome green,
The woods rejoiced the day,
Through gentle showers, the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:

But now our joys are fled

On winter blasts awa!
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

But my white pow nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;

My trunk of eild, but buss or beild,
Sinks in time's wintry rage.

Oh, age

has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain!

Thou golden time o' youthful prime,

Why com'st thou not again.

BESS, THE GAWKIE.

REV. MR MUIRHEAD.

TUNE-Bess the Gawkie.

BLYTHE young Bess to Jean did say,
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,
Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,
And sport a while wi' Jamie?
Ah, na, lass, I'll no gang there,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,
For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie.

For hark and I will tell you, lass,
Did I not see young Jamie pass,
Wi' mickle blytheness in his face,
Out ower the muir to Maggie.
I wat he gae her mony a kiss,
And Maggie took them ne'er amiss,
"Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,
That Bess was but a gawkie—

For when a civil kiss I seek,

She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,
And for an hour she'll hardly speak;
Wha'd no ca' her a gawkie?
But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She'll gie a score without offence;
Now gie me ane into the mense,
And ye shall be my dawtie.

O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,
But I will never stand for ane
Or twa, when we do meet again;
So ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah, na, lass, that canna be;
Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,
Or ony thy sweet face that see,

E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But, whisht, nae mair o' this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet.
I trow he likes the gawkie.

O, dear Bess, I hardly knew,
When I cam' by, your gown sae new;
I think you've got it wet wi' dew.

Quoth she, That's like a gawkie !

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane :
Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,
And tell it to your dawtie.
The guilt appeared in Jamie's cheek:
He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,

If I should gang anither gate,
I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue
That ever Maggie's face he knew,
Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.

As they gaed ower the muir, they sang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
The bills and dales wi' echoes rang,
Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.*

JOHN HAY'S BONNY LASSIE.
TUNE-John Hay's Bonnie Lassie.

By smooth-winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cried he, Oh, hey! maun I still live pining
Mysell thus away, and daurna discover

To my bonny Hay, that I am her lover!

Nae mair it will hide; the flame waxes stranger;
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer:
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture;
May be, ere we part, my vows may content her.

She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good-morrow:
The sward of the mead, enamell'd with daisies,
Looks wither'd and dead, when twined of her graces.

But if she appear where verdure invite her,
The fountains run clear, and the flowers smell the sweeter.
'Tis heaven to be by, when her wit is a-flowing:
Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glowing.

The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded;
Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded:
I'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye;
For a' my desire is John Hay's bonny lassie.†

This song is stated by Mr Cunningham, in his Songs of Scotland, to have been written by the Rev. Mr Muirhead, (minister, about fifty years ago, of the parish of Urr, in Galloway,) upon a youthful adventure of his It appears in Herd's Collection, 1776.

own.

From the Tea-Table Miscellany, 1724.-I have found it asserted by a credible tradition in Roxburghshire, that this song was written by a work

ANNIE.

BURNS.

TUNE-Allan Water.

By Allan stream I chanced to rove,
While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi,
The winds were whisp'ring through the grove,
The yellow corn was waving ready :
I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthful pleasures many;
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang-
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie !

O, happy be the woodbine bower;
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I meet my dearie !
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever!
While many a kiss the seal impress'd,
The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' Spring's the primrose brae;
The Simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheerie, through her short'ning day,

Is Autumn in her weeds of yellow!

ing joiner, in honour of a daughter of John, first Marquis of Tweeddale, who is here familiarly called by his simple name, John Hay. She was a sister of the second Marquis, who, under his junior title of Lord Yester, is usually given as the author of the first version of "Tweedside."

We

The first Marquis of Tweeddale had two daughters, Lady Margaret and Lady Jean; but, Burns having somewhere mentioned, that the song was written in honour of one who was afterwards Countess of Roxburghe, we are enabled to set forward the eldest, Lady Margaret, as the heroine. are further enabled, by Mr Wood's Peerage, to state the probable era of the song. Lady Margaret Hay, wife of the third Earl of Roxburghe, was a widow, at the age of twenty-five, in the year 1682. Allowing from thirteen to five-and-twenty as the utmost range of age during which she could be celebrated as "John Hay's Bonny Lassie," the song must have been written between the years 1670 and 1682, probably nearer the first era than the last.

It may be mentioned as a remarkable circumstance regarding this interesting lady, that she survived her husband, in uninterrupted widowhood, the amazingly long period of seventy-one years. She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, on the 23d of January, 1753, at the age of ninety-six, after having seen out several generations of her shortlived descendants; the third person in descent being then in possession of the honours of Roxburghe. Her husband was one of the unfortunate persons who were drowned at Yarmouth-roads, on the occasion of the shipwreck of the Gloucester frigate, which was bringing the Duke of York down to Scotland, May 1682.