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O bonny lass ! have but the grace ... ITE
To think, e'er ye gae furder,

4,i! 14,5 1, Your joys maun flit, if ye commit

) The crying sin of murder.

1,3:1,2, dari

My wand'ring ghaist will ne'er get rest,

:: ::
And night and day affright ye;
But if ye're kind, with joyful mind

I'll study to delight ye
Our
years

around with love thus crown'd,
From all things joys shall borrow;
Thus none shall be more bless'a than we'

On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.

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O sweetest Sue! 'tis only you

I 72
Can make life worth my wishes,
If equal love your mind can move

To grant this best of blisses.
fini Thou art my sun, and thy least frown

Would blast me in the blossom:
But if thou shine, and make me thine,

I'll flourish in thy bosom. grés i

fr

is1 I have no better authority than tradition for ascribing this song to the pen of William Crawford. It was printed in Allan Ramsay's collection without any token of age or author; and though a pretty song, it is far inferior to the ancient song of “Leader Haughs and Yarrow," which seems to have suggested it. I am afraid that few ladies have an imagination so sensitive as to be

alarmed into love and matrimony with the terror of a visitation from their lover's ghost ; and that a lover who reinforces his persuasions with threats of self-destruction, if the lady continues cruel, is in a fair way of becoming a subject for the sheriff's examination, if there be any sincerity in his nature.

!
baiminto Webrid 5737 litri

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If love's a sweet passion, why does it torment?
If a bitter, ( tell me whence comes my complaint ?
Since I suffer with pleasure, why should I complain,
Or grieve at my fate, since I know 'tis in vain ?
Yet so pleasing the pain is, so soft is the dart,
That at once it both wounds and tickles

my

heart.

me,

I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down,
And by passionate silence I make my love known.
But oh! how I'm bless'd when so kind she does

prove By some willing mistake to discover her love ;

1 When in striving to hide, she reveals all her flame, And our eyes tell each other what neither dare name.

How pleasing her beauty! how sweet are her charms !
How fond her embraces ! how peaceful her arms!
Sure there is nothing so easy as learning to love,
'Tis taught us on earth, and by all things above :

And to beauty's bright standard all heroes must yield, For 'tis beauty that conquers, and wins the fair field.

I found this very pleasing song in Alan Ramsay's collection, bearing the mark denoting the author's name unknown. I have some suspicion that it is an English production ; but as it has been rejected by Dr. Aikin, and other southern editors, I admit it gladly. Like a borderer of old, whose inheritance was a matter of national contest, it may rank under either the thistle or the rose. These two lines would do honour to any song:

I grasp her hands gently, look languishing down, And, by passionate silence, I make my love known.

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.

I've seen the smiling
Of fortune beguiling-
I've tasted her favours,

And felt her decay:
Sweet is her blessing,
And kind her caressing-
But soon it is fled-

It is fled far away.

I've seen the Forest,
Adorned the foremost
With flowers of the fairest,

Both pleasant and gay:
Full sweet was their blooming,
Their scent the air perfuming,
But now they are wither'd,

And a' wede away.

I've seen the morning
With gold the hills adorning;
The rude tempest storming,

Before the mid-day:
I've seen Tweed's silver streams
Glittering in the sunny beams,
Turn drumlie and dark

As they roamed on their way.

Oh, fickle Fortune!
Why this cruel sporting?
Why thus beguile us,

Poor sons of a day?
Thy frowns cannot fear me,
Thy smiles cannot cheer me,
Since the Flowers of the Forest

Are a' wede away.

This song has found many admirers, and the subject of it has found many poets. It was written by Miss Rutherford, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire- no one has ever mentioned it without praise, and no collection is thought complete that wants it. I prefer the song on the same subject by Miss Jane Elliott-nature always surpasses art; yet the union of the two is oftentimes exceedingly graceful and engaging.

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I've heard a lilting
At our ewe-milking, ...
Lasses loud lilting

Before the dawn of day;
But now they are moaning
In ilka green loaning;
The Flowers of the Forest rajone
Are a' wede

away. BT

, : ༔ At bughts in the morning, Nae blithe lads are scorning;

:
The lasses are lonely,

1
And dowie and wae ;
Nae daffing, nae gabbing,
But sighing and sabbing;
Ilk ane lifts her leglin,

And hies her away.

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