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THE BRAES OF YARROW.

Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie bride;
Busk

ye,

busk ye, my winsome marrow;
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonnie bride,

And let us to the braes of Yarrow.
There will we sport and gather dew,

Dancing while lav'rocks sing in the morning:
There learn turt to prove true:

O Bell, ne'er vex me with thy scorning.
To westlin breezes Flora yields,

And when the beams are kindly warming,
Blytheness appears o'er all the fields,

And nature looks mair fair and charming.
Learn frae the burns, that trace the mead,

Though on their banks the roses blossom,
Yet hastilie they flow to Tweed,
And
pour

their sweetness in his bosom.

it was the opinion both of that Gentleman and of the Hon. Mr. ERSKINE, that the verses, in some instances, did not exactly suit the music. Accordingly they set themselves about making what they thought the necessary amendments. These they afterwards transmitted to the Poet for his approbation. With his usual judgment, however, he rejected several of them, and adopted those only which corresponded with his own ideas respecting the characteristic qualities of a song. In the following passage, from the letter to Mr. THOMPSON accompanying the amended copy, these ideas are forcibly explained. “Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which it is in my opinion reprehensible. You know I ought to know something of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point, you are a complete judge; but there is a quality more necessary than either, in a song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, I mean simplicity: now, if I mistake not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing.”

Haste ye, haste ye, my bonnie Bell,

Haste to my arms, and there I'll guard thee;
With free consent my fears repel,

I'll with my love and care reward thee.
Thus sang I saftly to my fair,

Wha rais'd my hopes wi' kind relenting:
0, queen of smiles ! I ask nae mair,

Since now my bonnie Bell's consenting.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone? Oh where, tell me where, is your Highland Laddie gone? He's gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds

are done, And my sad heart will tremble, till he come safely home.

He's gone, &c. O where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay? O where, tell me where, did your Highland Laddie stay? He dwelt beneath the holly-trees, beside the rapid Spey, And monie a blessing follow'd him, the day he gaed away.

He dwelt, &c. O what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear? O what, tell me what, does your Highland Laddie wear? A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across his manly breast, that yet shall wear a star.

A bonnet, &c. Ah suppose, ah suppose that some cruel cruel wound Should pierce your Highland Laddie's breast, and all

your hopes confound ! The pipe should play a cheerfu' strain, the banners

round him fly, And the spirit of a Highland chief should glister in his eye!

The pipe should play, &c.

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie

bounds, But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie

bounds, His native land of liberty will nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all the Highland hills his warlike name resounds.

His native land, &c. *

NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE.

But are ye sure the news is true?

And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to talk n' wark?

Ye jades, fling by your wheel.
Is this a time to talk o' wark,

When Colin's at the door?
Rax me my cloak, I'll down the quay,
And see him come ashore.
For there's nae luck about the house,

There's nac luck ava ;
There's litile pleasure in the house,

When our gudeman's awa,

1

Rise

up

and mak a clean fireside;
Put on the muckle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton gown,

And Jock his Sunday's coat:

* This song is the production of Mrs. GRANT of Laggan, the writer of a volume of Poetry published several years ago, containing the Highlanders, &c. and of Eighteen Hundred and Thir. teen, a Poem. It was composed on occasion of the Marquis of Huntley's departure for the continent with his regiment in the year 1793.

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,

Their hose as white as snaw; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, He likes to see them braw.

For there's nae luck, fc.

There are twa hens into the crib,

Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,

That Colin weel may fare:
And spread the table neat and clean,

Gar ilka thing look braw;
It's a' for love o' our gudeman,
For he's been lang awa.

For there's nae luck, fc. 0 gie me down my bigonet,

My bishop satin gown,
And then gae tell the bailie's wife

That Colin's come to town.
My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on,

My hose o' pearl blue;
And a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

For there's nae luck, fc.

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue,

His breath's like cauler air; His very tread has music in't,

As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again ?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the joy,
In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, fc.
The cauld blasts o' the winter wind,

That thirl'd thro' my heart,

They're a' blawn by, I haé him safe,

Till death we'll never part.
But what puts parting in my head ?

It may be far awa;
The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

For there's nae luck, 8c.
Since Colin's weel, I'm weel content;

I hae nae mair to crave;
Could I but live to mak him blest,

I'm blest aboon the laye.
And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizy wi' the thought,
In troth, I'm like to greet.

For there's nae luck, fc. *

TWEEDSIDE.
Whan Maggy and I war acquaint,

I carried my noddle fu' hie;
Nae lintwhite on a' the gay plain,

Nae gowdspink sae bonnie as she.

* “ This is one of the most beautiful songs in the Scottish, or any other language. The two lines,

“ And will I see his face again,

“ And will I hear him speak!" as well as the two preceding ones, are unequalled almost by any thing I ever heard or read; and the lines

The present moment is our ain,

The neist we never saw". are worthy of the first poet. It is long posterior to Ramsay's days.--About the year 1771, or 72, it came first on the streets as a ballad ; and I suppose the composition of the song was not much anterior to that period.”-Burns.

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