She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain;
And far be the villain, divested o' feeling,

Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.
Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen;
Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain;
I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.
Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain;

And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

VIII.-THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.

AR lone amang the Highland hills,

FAR

'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,

By rocky dens, and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander.

The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rosebud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
And's scarcely seen by ony;
Sae sweet amidst her native hills,
Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May
The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,

I view the distant ocean,
There Av'rice guides the bounding prow

Ambition courts promotion :
Let Fortune pour her golden store,

Her laureli'd favours many;
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,

The lass o' Arranteenie.

IX.-THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

ET us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o’ Balquhither,
Where the blaeberries grow

’Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the rae,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day

On the braes o’ Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi’ the flowers o' the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,

And the deep glens sae dreary,
And return wi’ their spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn

On the nignt breeze is swelling;

Now the summer is in prime,

Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme

A'the moorlands perfuming;
To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together,
Where glad Innocence reigns

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

X.-BY YON BURN SIDE.

1

WELL

TE'LL meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,

Whare the bushes form a cosie den, on yon burn side;
Though the broomy knowes be green,

Yet, there we may be seen,
But we'll meet-we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.

I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side,
Sae sweetly wove wi' woodbine flower, on yon burn side;

There the busy prying eye,

Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy,
While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.

Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,
Those fairy scenes are no for you, by yon burn side;

There fancy smooths her theme,

By the sweetly murm’ring stream,
And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.

Now the plantin taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn si And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side Far frae the noisy scene,

I'll through the fields alane,

There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn si

XI.-O, ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?

ARE ye sleepin', Maggie?

O, are ye sleepin', Maggie ?

Let me in, for loud the linn

Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie !

Mirk and rainy is the night;

No a starn in a' the carry:
Lightnings gleam athwart the lift,
And winds drive wi' winter's fury.

Fearfu' soughs the bour-tree bank;

The rifted wood roars wild and drearie;
Loud the iron yett does clank;

And cry o' howlets mak's me eerie.

Aboon my breath I daurna speak,

For fear I raise your waukrife daddy;
Cauld's the blast upon my cheek:
O rise, rise, my bonnie lady!
She oped the door; she let him in :
He cuist aside his dreepin' plaidie;
Blaw your warst, ye rain and win',
Since, Maggie, now I'm in aside ye!

Now, since ye're wakin', Maggie,
Now, since ye're wakin', Maggie,
What care I for howlet's cry,

For bour-tree bank and warlock craigie?

Walter Savage Landor.

1775-1864.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR was born at Warwick, on January 30th, 1775, and was sprung of a family which had long been one of the best in Staffordshire. His father, Dr. Landor, had married a second wife, a Miss Elizabeth Savage, and Walter Savage Landor was the eldest of her three sons. Upon him were entailed her own estate, amounting to about £80,000, and Dr. Landor's property in Staffordshire. In his fifth year he was sent to a school at Knowles, and, in his tenth, to Rugby, where he distinguished himself as one of the best Latin scholars. As a boy he was an eager reader, and showed, moreover, a wonderful love for trees and flowers and brooks. In his sixteenth year he quarrelled with his master (whom he proved to have erred in regard to a Latin quantity), and had to leave Rugby in consequence. At the age of eighteen he went up to Trinity College, Oxford, where his talents were at once recognised, but where he would not compete for any University distinction. He became notorious as a “mad Jacobin," and was rusticated for having sent a charge of shot through the window of another undergraduate. Having quarrelled with his father, he went up to London on an allowance of £ 150 a year; studied French and Italian; and in 1795 published “The Poems of Walter Savage Landor,” a volume of conventional