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Maxwelltown banks are bonnie,

Where early fa's the dew;
Where I and Annie Laurie

Made up the promise true;
Made up the promise true,

And never forget will I,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie
I'd lay down

my

head and die.

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She's backet like a peacock,

She's breasted like a swan,
She's jimp about the middle,

Her waist you weel may span :
Her waist you weel may span,

And she has a rolling eye,
And for bonnie Annie Laurie

I'd lay down my head and die.

I found this song in the little “ Ballad Book," collected and edited by a gentleman to whom Scottish literature is largely indebted-Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe of Hoddam. It is accompanied by the following notice :

.“ Sir Robert Laurie, first Baronet of the Maxwelton family (created 27th March, 1685), by his second wife, a daughter of Riddell of Minto, had three sons and

four daughters, of whom Anne was much celebrated for her beauty, and made a conquest of Mr. Douglas of Fingland, who is said to have composed the following verses under an unlucky star—for the lady married Mr. Ferguson of Craigdarroch.” I have only to add, that I am glad such a song finds a local 'habitation in my native place.

GIN LIVING WORTH COULD WIN MY

HEART.

Gin living worth could win my heart,

Ye shou'dna sigh in vain;
But in the darksome grave it's laid,

Never to rise again.
My waefu' heart lies low wi' his

Whose heart was only mine;
And what a heart was that to lose !

But I maun not repine.

Yet oh! gin heaven in mercy soon

Would grant the boon I crave,
And tak this life, now naething worth,

Sin' Jamie's in his grave!

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And see his gentle spirit comes

To shew me on my way;
Surpriz'd, nae doubt, I still am here,

Sair wond'ring at my stay.

I come, I come, my

Jamie dear;
And oh! wi' what good will,
I follow wheresoe'er

ye

lead,
Ye canna lead to ill.
She said ; and soon a deadly pale

Her faded cheek possest,
Her waefu' heart forgat to beat,

Her sorrows sunk to rest.

I lament my inability to name the author of this sweet song. It has been some six-and-thirty years before the public; and if it be written with an English pen, it is written with a Scottish spirit. Johnson's Musical Museum became its first sanctuary, and it soon won its way to public favour. It is seldom indeed that songs of this touching and simple kind become public favourites. The stream of sorrow which glides along so smooth and so deep fails to glitter and attract as it flows.

I LO’E NAE A LADDIE BUT ANE.

I lo'e nae a laddie but ane,

He lo'es nae a lassie but me;
He's willing to make me his ain,

And his ain I am willing to be.
He coft me a rokelay of blue,

A pair of mittens of green-
The price was a kiss of my mou,

And I paid him the debt yestreen.

My mither's ay making a phrase,

That I'm rather young to be wed;
But lang ere she counted my days,

O'me she was brought to bed.
Sae mother just settle yere tongue,

And dinna be flyting sae bauld,
We can weel do the thing when we're young,

That we canna do weel when we're auld.

Some person informed Burns, that “ I lo'e nae a laddie but ane” was written by “ Mr. Clunie"-whoever wrote it, wrote a capital song. I have seen it printed with the addition of four new verses, the work seemingly of a very inferior pen, and to which the name of Macneill was added. Macneill, indeed, could bring the lyric ease of language necessary for the attempt, but he could not bring the peculiar life and naïveté of the original words. The last four lines of the first verse are in the most lucky spirit of true love and innocence, and the argument by which she subdues her mother is unanswerable. I wish I could be sure of the name of the author: though Mr. Clunie is mentioned by Burns, I am not satisfied of his authorship; the poet was no anxious inquirer, and the song is printed in Ritson with the initials “ I. D.” attached to it.

AND YE SHALL WALK IN SILK ATTIRE.

And ye

shall walk in silk attire,
And siller hae to spare,
Gin ye'll consent to be his bride,

Nor think o' Donald mair.
O wha wad buy a silken gown,
Wi
a poor

broken heart?
Or what's to me a siller crown

Gin frae my love I part ?

The mind whose meanest wish is pure

Far dearest is to me,
And ere I'm forced to break my faith,

I'll lay me down and die:

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