Wat ye how she cheated me

As I came o'er the braes of Balloch?
Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear,
Her wee bit mou sae sweet and bonnie!
To me she ever will be dear,

Though she's for ever left her Johnie.

Mr. Cromek, an anxious inquirer into all matters illustrative of northern song, ascribes Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch to Mrs. Murray of Bath; while George Thomson, and all other editors of Scottish song, impute it to Mrs. Grant of Carron. I am not aware that the authorship has been settled-and I am sorry for it; because whoever wrote it has favoured us with a very sprightly and pleasant production. The closing description of this highland enchantress is truly luscious and provoking. The hero is quite a model for all forsaken swains: he admires the person of his mistress, admits her witchery in the dance, and reminds her in the gentlest manner how she had vowed herself to him before she took honest Roy of Aldivalloch. This is much better than if he had gone "daunering about the dykes" and sung songs, long and dolorous, of woman's inconstancy.

HER ABSENCE WILL NOT ALTER ME.

Though distant far from Jessy's charms,

I stretch in vain my longing arms;
Though parted by the deeps of sea,
Her absence shall not alter me.
Though beauteous nymphs I see around,
A Chloris, Flora, might be found,
Or Phillis with her roving e'e;
Her absence shall not alter me.

A fairer face, a sweeter smile,
Inconstant lovers may beguile;
But to my lass I'll constant be,
Nor shall her absence alter me.
Though laid on India's burning coast,
Or on the wide Atlantic tost,

My mind from love no power could free,
Nor could her absence alter me.

See how the flow'r that courts the sun
Pursues him till his race is run;
See how the needle seeks the pole,
Nor distance can its power control:
Shall lifeless flow'rs the sun pursue,
The needle to the pole prove true-
Like them shall I not faithful be,
Or shall her absence alter me?

Ask, who has seen the turtle-dove
Unfaithful to its marrow prove?

Or who the bleating ewe has seen
Desert her lambkin on the green ?
Shall beasts and birds, inferior far
To us, display their love and care?
Shall they in union sweet agree,
And shall her absence alter me?

For conq'ring love is strong as death,
Like veh❜ment flames his pow'rful breath;
Through floods unmov'd his course he keeps,
Ev'n through the sea's devouring deeps.
His veh❜ment flames my bosom burn,
Unchang'd they blaze till I return;
My faithful Jessy then shall see
Her absence has not alter'd me.

This is a favourite song with our Scottish mariners; and their affection is very natural. The hero indeed speculates upon the inconstancy of a sailor's affection: he imagines woman to be all truth, and a mariner to be all levity. He has no suspicion that while he " is on India's burning coast" his love may forsake him; and he labours to assure the world that he is unchangeable and immutable.

THE MINSTREL.

Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-head, The snaw drives snelly through the dale, The Gaberlunyie tirls my sneck,

An shiv'ring tells his waefu' tale:

Cauld is the night, O let me in,
And dinna let your minstrel fa';
And dinna let his winding sheet
Be naething but a wreath o' snaw.

Full ninety simmers hae I seen,

And pip'd whar gorcocks whirring flew ; And mony a day ye've danc'd, I ween, To lilts that frae my drone I blew.

My Eppie wak'd, and soon she cried,
Get up, gudeman, and let him in,
For weel ye ken the winter night
Seem'd short when he began his din.

My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet!
E'en though she banns and scolds a wee;
But when it's tun'd to pity's tale,

O, haith it's doubly dear to me!

Come ben, auld carle, I'll rouse my fire,

And make it bleeze a bonnie flame;
Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate;
Ye shoudna stray sae far frae hame.

Nae hame hae I, the minstrel said,
Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha',
And, weeping, at the eve o' life,

I wander through a wreath o' snaw.

This very touching and original song was written by Thomas Pickering of Newcastle, in 1794. The lives of poets are only so many stories of genius depressed and unrewarded, of sorrow and misfortune. Life has been usually the bitterest, and the world the rudest, to those whose song was sweetest. Of Pickering I have heard much more than I am willing to repeat: his follies were only injurious to himself; and death was a welcome boon. His song of Donochthead surpasses all his other compositions; it attracted the notice and obtained the admiration of Burns, and will probably long continue to please. It speaks of civil discord, and probably alludes to the brief and bloody struggle which took place in behalf of the exiled house of Stuart.