tion by morning light dawning on the window. He suddenly silenced his pipe, and exclaimed, "O but this wearyfu' hanging rings in my lug like a new tune.!" MEG O' THE MILL. Oken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? The miller was strappin', the miller was ruddy; The miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving: O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing ; "Meg o' the Mill" was a favourite theme with Burns> augmented the humour and the glee of the old song, and sent it to the Museum; while for Thomson's more classic collection he wrote the present version. The ancient song lives still in the tenacious memory of the peasantry, though little of it deserves to live. Ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? DONALD AND FLORA. When merry hearts were gay, Loose flow'd her yellow hair, Quick heav'd her bosom bare, And thus to the troubled air She vented her sorrow: Loud howls the northern blast, Bleak is the dreary waste; Haste then, O Donald, haste, Haste to thy Flora! Twice twelve long months are o'er, Since on a foreign shore You promis'd to fight no more, But meet me in Mora. Come then, O come away ! Never, O wretched fair! Well fought our valiant men Thrice fled the hostile train From British glory. But, though our foes did flee, Sad was each victory! For youth, love, and loyalty, Fell far, far from Mora! Here, take this love-wrought plaid, Donald, expiring, said; Give it to yon dear maid, Drooping in Mora: Tell her, O Allan, tell! And that in his last farewell Mute stood the trembling fair, She sigh'd, Poor Flora! Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day!- At length the sound died away Hector Macneill had some tenderness, but no pathos ; and as pathos was wanted for this tale of woe, the song is a failure. What messenger ever came with so swift a foot and so tedious a tongue :-in three verses he tells what he might have said in three lines, and the silly sorrow of the lady is in keeping with the stupidity of the messenger : Ah, Donald! ah, well-a-day! I have omitted one verse, and more might be spared. MY ONLY JO AND DEARIE. Thy cheek is o' the rose's hue, O sweet's the twinkle o' thine e'e! The birdie sings upon the thorn Nae care to make it eerie-o; That gar my restless bosom beat, My only jo and dearie-o. Whan we were bairnies on yon brae, And youth was blinkin' bonnie-o, Aft we wad daff the lee-lang day Our joys fu' sweet and monie-o: Aft I wad chase thee o'er the lea, And round about the thorny tree, Or pu' the wild flowers a' for thee, My only jo and dearie-o. |