O THOU, in whom we live and move, Who mad'st the sea and shore; Thy goodness constantly we prove, And grateful would adore.

And if it please thee, pow'r above, grant us with such store;

Still

The friend we trust, the fair we love, And we desire no more.

EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL.

YE maggots feast on Nicol's brain,
For few sic feasts ye've gotten;
And fix your claws in Nicol's heart,
For de'il a bit o'ts rotten.

SONGS.

VOL.II.

M

SONGS.

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.*

TUNE-MISS FORBES'S FAREWELL TO BANFF, OR ETTRICK BANKS.'

"Twas even the dewy fields were green,

On every blade the pearls hang;
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In every glen the Mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while,
Except where green-wood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

The lass of Ballochmyle" was Miss Alexander; and this song was sent to her in the following letter:

Mossgiel, 18th Nov. 1786. Madam,-Poets are such outré beings, so much the children of wayward fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them a larger latitude in the laws of propriety than the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a nameless stranger has taken with you in the enclosed poem, which he begs leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper judge; but it is the best my abilities can produce; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, it is equally sincere and fervent.

The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile,
Perfection whisper'd passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle !1

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in Autumn mild;

VAR. The lily-hue, and rose's dye
Bespoke the lass o' Ballochmyle.

dare say, Madam, you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic réveur as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in the favourite haunts of my Muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view nature in all the gayety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the distant western hills; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, regardless of your harmonious endeavours to please him, can eye your elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the property nature gives you-your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at such a time but must have been interested in its welfare, and wish it preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast. Such was the scene,-and such the hour, when in a corner of my prospect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards excepted, who hold commerce with aërial beings. Had Calumny and Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal