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All day the amorous youths convene,

Joyous they sport and play before her ;
All night, when she no more is seen,

In blissful dreams they still adore her.

Among the crowd Amyntor came,

He look'd, he lov'd, he bow'd to Annie;
His rising sighs express his flame,

His words were few, his wishes many.
With smiles the lovely maid reply'd,

Kind shepherd, why should I deceive ye?
Alas ! your love must be deny'd,
This destin'd breast can ne'er relieve


Young Damon came with Cupid's art,

His wiles, his smiles, his charms beguiling,
He stole away my virgin heart;

Cease, poor Amyntor, cease bewailing.
Some brighter beauty you may find;

On yonder plain the nymphs are many:
Then choose some heart that's unconfin'd,

And leave to Damon his own Annie.

I have a strong belief that the name of this song should be “ Annan Water;" a fine ballad of that name will be found in this work, with many

marks of an tiquity about it, and possessing the line, "O, my love Annie's very bonnie.” Burns was informed that the honour belonged to Allan Water, in Strathallan ; but what I have said seems nearly decisive of the question. Annan Water is no vulgar stream: it is noticed by Collins in his admirable Ode on the Superstitions of Scotland, in the lays of Sir Walter Scott, and it runs smooth in many a lesser song. The banks, which in many places are very romantic, were in ancient times so thickly clothed with wood, that it was the vaunt of a Halliday, a warlike laird of Corehead, that he could let his deer-dog into the wood at his own door, and it would never run off the land of a Halliday, nor be seen for wood till it came out at the firth of Solwaya fair inheritance. This is one of Crawford's songs. It offers violence to propriety in seeking to unite Amyntor in wedlock with Annie-but after she could fall in love with Damon, she was capable of any foolish thing.

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I had a horse, and I had nae mair, ?::}

I gat him frae my daddy ;
My purse was light, and


heart was sair,
But my wit it was fu' ready..
And sae I thought me on a time,

Outwittens of my daddy,
To fee mysel' to a lowland laird,

Wha had a bonnie lady.

21 !, I wrote a letter, and thus began;
to ante. Madam be not offended, '..
allt I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you,
III di And care not though ye kend it;
25 For I get little frae the laird,
$141, And far less frae my daddy,

And I wad blithely be the man
w Wad strive to please his lady.
for wris

She read the letter and she leugh

cu Ye needna been sae blate, man,
70 You might hae come to me yoursel',
von And tauld me o' your state, man:
You might hae come to me yoursel',

Outwittens of ony body,
And made John Goukstone of the laird,

And kiss'd his bonnie lady.

Then she pat siller in my purse ;

We drank wine in a cogie ;
She fee'd a man to rub my horse,

And wow, but I was vogie !
But I gat ne'er sae sair a fleg

Since I came frae my daddy;
The laird came rap rap to the yett

When I was wi' his lady.

Then she put me behint a chair,

And happ'd me wi' a plaidie ;

But I was like to swarf wi' fear,
And wish'd me wi' my

The laird gaed out, he saw na me,

I gaed when I was ready:
I promis'd, but I ne'er went back

To see his bonnie lady.

Burns in his notes says, “ A John Hunter, ancestor to a very respectable farming family who live at Barrmill, in the parish of Galston in Ayrshire, was the luckless hero who · Had a horse, and had nae mair:' for some little youthful follies he found it necessary to make a retreat to the West Highlands, where he fee'd himself to a highland laird-for that is the expression of all the oral editions of the song I ever heard. The present Mr. Hunter who told me the anecdote is the great-grandchild of our hero." This note was written in 1795, twenty years after the publication of the song by David Herd. It seems rprising that such a song failed to obtain an earlier place in some of our collections, for it is an original and clever production.


In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain,
And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain ;
The yellow-hair'd laddie would oftentimes go
To wilds and deep glens, where the hawthorn trees grow.

There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn,
With freedom he sung his loves ev'ning and morn:
He sung with so saft and enchanting a sound,
That Sylvans and Fairies unseen danc'd around.

The shepherd thus sung, Though young Maya be fair,
Her beauty is dash'd with a scornfu' proud air;
But Susie was hardsome, and sweetly could sing,
Her breath like the breezes perfum'd in the spring;

That Madie in all the gay bloom of her youth,
Like the moon was inconstant, and never spoke truth :
But Susie was faithful, good-humour'd, and free,
And fair as the goddess who sprung from the sea;

That mamma's fine daughter with all her great dow'r,
Was awkwardly airy, and frequently sour:
Then, sighing, he wished, would parents agree,
The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be.

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