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Not the poet, in the moment

Fancy lightens on his ee;-
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture,

That thy presence gies to me.

THE EWE-BUGHTS MARION. WILL ye gae to the ewe-bughts, Marion,

And wear in the sheep wi' me? The sun shines sweet, my Marion,

But nae hauf so sweet as thee.

My Marion's a bonny lass,

The blythe blink's aye in her ee; And fain wad I marry my Marion,

Gin Marion wad marry me. There's gowd in your garters, Marion,

And silk on your white hause-bape; Fu' fain wad I kiss my Marion,

At e'en' when I come hame.

I've nine milk ewes, my Marion,

A cow, and a brawny quey; I'll gie them a' to my Marion,

Just on her bridal day.

And yese get a green-sey apron,

And waistcot o' Lon'on brown; Then yow but ye will be vap'rin'

When ye gang to the town.

I'm

young and stout, my Marion; Nane dances like me on the green; And gin ye forsake me, Marion,

I'll e'en draw up wi' Jean.

Sae put on your pearlings, Marion,

Wi' kirtle of the cramasie;
And sae soon's my chin has nae hair on,

I shall come west, and see thee.

SPEAK ON, SPEAK THUS.
TUNE" Woes my heart that we should sunder.
SPEAK on,-speak thus, and still my grief,

Hold up a heart that's sinking under
These fears, that soon will want relief,

When Pate must from his Peggy sunder. A gentler face, and silk attire,

A lady rich in beauty's blossom, Alake poor me! will now conspire,

To steal thee from thy Peggy's bosom. No more the shepherd, who excell'd

The rest, whose wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggy's praises tell;

Ah! I can die, but never sunder. Ye meadows where we often stray'd,

Ye banks where we were wont to wander, Sweet-scented rocks round which we played,

You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder.

Again, ah! shall I never creep

Around the knowe, with silent duty, Kindly to watch thee, while asleep,

And wonder at thy manly beauty. Hear, Heaven, while solemnly I vow,

Tho' thou shouldst prove a wand'ring lover, Thro' life to thee I shall prove true,

Nor be a wife to any other.

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.
THICKEST night o’erhang my dwelling!

Howling tempests o’er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,

Still surround my lonely cave!
Crystal streamlets, gently flowing,

Busy haunts of base mankind,
Western breezes, softly blowing,

Suit not my distracted mind.
In the cause of right engaged,

Wrongs injurious to redress,
Honour's war we strongly waged,

But the Heavens deny'd success.
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,

Not a hope that dare attend:
The wide world is all before us

But a world without a friend ! *

KELVIN BRAES.

TUNE" Logan Braes.
Aft hae I stray'd the woods amang,

An' listen'd to the mavis' tune,
Where Kelvin swiftly glides alang,

Or rushes o'er the roaring linn.
'Twas there my Mary first I saw,

An' past wi' her my youthfu' days;
But roaring seas now part us twa,

An' I am far frae Kelvin Braes.

“ Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of the young Chevalier; and is supposed to be lying concealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden."

Tho' fortune's smiles upon me play,

No pain my pleasure to destroy;
Still when I think, my heart is wae

Since Mary canna share my joy..
Tho' scented groves perfume the air;

Tho' here is spring that ne'er decays;
I naething see that can compare,

Wi' what I've left on Kelvin Braes.
O had I Mary in my arms,

Could I again but ca’ her mine ;
Than I, when gazing o'er her charms,

Would little cause hae to repine.
Fareweel then to the shady bower,

Nurs'd by kind Nature's genial rays;
And welcome back the happy hours,

That I hae spent on Kelvin Braes.

NOW EV’NING DESCENDING.

Tune-" Nathaniel Gow's lament.Now ev'ning descending has darken'd the hill,

And dim through the twilight the woodlands appear: Save the noise of the mournfully-murm'ring rill,

And the breeze in the forest, no sound meets my ear. How sweet is the shade, and the silence of ev'n

How dear to the bosom affliction has wrung, When the red eye of grief has no witness but Heav'n,

And unheard are the accents from agony sprung. Departed twin-spirit! O G*th **e belov’d, *

Since I lost thee, how wretched existence has been ! Now in anguish I stray, where in rapture we rov’d,

In the long lovely ev’nings of summer serene. * Instead of O G*th**e belov’d, Friend dearly belov'd, may be substituted in singing.

The gathering gloom now conceals from my sight

The scenes of past joy by the course of the Cree; But when shall the thoughts of departed delight,

Retentive remembrance, be darken’d with thee! *

* These beautiful stanzas on the death of a dear school-fellow, were written by a young gentleman, who died, a few months ago, of a consumption, aged 20 years, and who is also the author of Evening sheds her gems of dew. A copy of that song, with additions and alterations by the author of The days of auld langsyne, will be found in page 188 of this work. It will be seen by the following copy of the original, (which a friend of the author's has kindly furnished the Editor with, and which he conceives it but justice to departed genius to insert) that the alterations consist in giving the verses a Scottish dress, changing the name of the river, and altering a few of the words, some of them for the better, others, we think, unhappily. The words for which others were substituted in the copy formerly given, are here marked in Italics.

EV'NING SHEDS HER GEMS OF DEW.

Tune-" Lord Balgonie's favourite." Ev’ning sheds her gems of dew, O'er the scenes of past delight On the heath bell's bosom blue, Slowly steals the shades of night, Blooming here beneath the yew, Hiding from my aching sight

Upon thy grave, my Mary, O! The lov'd resorts of Mary, 0! Larger drops than those of eve, Scenes! by Creta + rushing clear, Burning tears, the flowers receive; Haunts! that bring the briny tear, Grief, that time can ne'er relieve, Far is she, who made ye dear, With me must ever tarry, O!

Above that vault so starry, 0! Nought below can e'er restore O! that brief the time may be Pleasure to my bosom more; Till my soul, from anguish free, Anguish still must wring it's core Raptur'd rise to heav'n, and thee, Till I rejoin my Mary, O!

My dear departed Mary, 0! The Mary the author laments in these lines died about six months before himself.

† The Cree, a rapid romantic stream in Upper Galloway.

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