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He shawed her gowd in gowpins,

And she answered him fu' ready;
The lad I love works under ground,
The colonir o'

my

daddie.

Such is the song which I have heard sung as the old words.

AH THE POOR SHEPHERD'S MOURNFUL

FATE.

Ah the poor shepherd's mournful fate,

When doom'd to love, and doom'd to languish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate,

Nor dare disclose his anguish !
Yet eager looks, and dying sighs,

My secret soul discover;
While rapture, trembling through mine eyes,

Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance, the reddening cheek,

O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak

A thousand various wishes.

For, oh! that form so heavenly fair,

Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush, and modest air,

So fatally beguiling!

Thy every look, and every grace,

So charm whene'er I view thee, Till death o'ertake me in the chase

Still will my hopes pursue thee :
Then when my tedious hours are past,

Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,

And die in sight of heaven.

This is one of the most elegant and beautiful songs in the language. It was written by Hamilton of Bangour ; but so little has its charms been felt in England, that Dr. Johnson would not allow it to be poetry, because “ blushes” and “ wishes” were not corresponding rhymes, and Dr. Aikin published it as the production of an Englishman, without knowing the author. Burns says, the old name was “ Sour plums of Galloshiels,” and that the piper of the laird of Galloshiels composed the air about the year 1700. The old words have been entirely silenced by this fine song; and with regard to the piper's claim upon the air, I have not observed that Hamilton, in his poem of the Fair Maid of Galloshiels, mentions the genius of the piper for original composition. I have, it is true, only seen a portion of the poem, which records a contest between a fiddler and a piper for the maid of Galloshiels, of which the lady herself, with a manifest violation of equity, is made sole judge. The description of the bagpipe made by Glenderule is exquisite, and in the true Homeric style, where all is painted for the eye.

THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,

I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Tho' thus I languish, thus complain,

Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,

Unheeded never move her;
At the bonny bush aboon Traquair,

'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled, and made me glad,

No maid seem'd ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,

So sweetly there to find her.
I tried to soothe my amorous flame

In words that I thought tender ;
If more there pass’d, I'm not to blame,

I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,

The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain,

She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May,

Its sweets I'll ay remember;
But now her frowns make it decay,

It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,

Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains,

Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,

My passion no more tender,
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,

To lonely wilds I'll wander.

This song is supposed to have supplied the place of an ancient one with the same name, of which no reliques remain. Burns visited the Bush in the year 1787, when he made a pilgrimage to various places celebrated in story and in song, and found it composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Bush grows on a rising ground overlooking the old mansion of Traquair and the stream of Tweed. It has lately paid a heavy tax to human curiosity, and has supplied nobles, and I have heard princes, with “specimens” in the shape of snuff-boxes and other toys. The Earl of Traquair, in anticipation perhaps of this rage for reliques, planted what he called “ The New Bush,” but it remains unconsecrated in song, and can never inherit the fame or share in the honours of the old. The song is by Crawford.

TWEEDSIDE.

What beauties does Flora disclose !

How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed !
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,

Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose,

* Not all the gay flowers of the field,
Not Tweed gliding gently through those,
Such beauty and pleasure does yield.se

i molt .* The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove,

viliste With music enchant ev'ry bush.

***** Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Info
Let us see how the primroses spring ; *7 mi)
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,
And love while the feather'd folks sing. I'm bor's

tu How does my love pass the long day?

Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ; luz

Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

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