to commemorate the anniversary of RODNEY's victory, April 12th, 1782, BURNS was called upon for a Song, instead of which he delivered the following LINES :

This was written in the same measure as the Birks

LEAVE ME?

Tune-" An Gille dubh ciar dhubh."

STAY, my charmer, can you leave me?
Cruel, cruel to deceive me!
Well you know how much you grieve me;
Cruel charmer, can you go?
Cruel charmer, can you go?

By my love so ill-requited;
By the faith you fondly plighted;
By the pangs of lovers slighted;

Do not, do not leave me so!
Do not, do not leave me so!

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT.

THICKEST night o'erhangs my dwelling!
Howling tempests o'er me rave!
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling,
Still surround my lonely cave!

Chrystal streamlets gently flowing,

Busy haunts of base mankind, Western breezes, softly blowing, Suit not my distracted mind.

In the cause of right engaged, Wrongs injurious to redress, Honour's war we strongly waged, But the heavens deny'd success.

Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,

Not a hope that dare attend, The wide world is all before usBut a world without a friend!*

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.

Tune-" Morag."

LOUD blaw the frosty breezes,

The snaws the mountains cover; Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young highland rover Far wanders nations over. Where'er he go, where'er he stray, May heaven be his warden : Return him safe to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon

The trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,
The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a' be blythely singing,

is borrowed but the chorus.

Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of the followers of the young Chevalier, and is supposed to be lying con. cealed in some cave of the Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. This song was written before the year 1788.

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,

When by his mighty warden

My youth's returned to fair Strathspey, And bonnie Castle-Gordon.*

RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOWING.

Tune-" M'Grigor of Ruaro's Lament."

RAVING winds around her blowing,
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing,
By a river hoarsely roaring,
Isabella stray'd deploring.
"Farewell, hours that late did measure
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure;
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow,
Cheerless night that knows no morrow.

"O'er the past too fondly wandering,
On the hopeless future pondering;
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes,
Fell despair my fancy seizes.
Life, thou soul of every blessing,
Load to misery most distressing,
O how gladly I'd resign thee,
And to dark oblivion join thee !"+

BLYTHE WAS SHE.

Blythe, blythe and merry was she, Blythe was she but and ben; Blythe by the banks of Ern,

And blythe in Glenturit glen.

By Oughtertyre grows the aik,
On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.
Blythe, &c.

Her looks were like a flow'r in May,
Her smile was like a simmer morn
She tripped by the banks of Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.
Blythe, &e.

Her bonnie face it was as meek
As ony lamb upon a lee;
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.
Blythe, &c.

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass
That ever trod the dewy green.
Blythe, &c.

And bless the parent's evening ray

That watched thy early morning.*

Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, Be better than the kye.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,

TER'S STORMS.

Tune-"N. Gow's Lamentation for Abercairny."

WHERE braving angry winter's storms,
The lofty Ochils rise,

Far in their shade my Peggy's charms
First blest my wondering eyes.

As one who by some savage stream,
A lonely gem surveys,
Astonished doubly marks its beam,
With art's most polished blaze.

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade,
And blest the day and hour,
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd,
When first I felt their pow'r!
The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.

The deil a ane wad spier your price, Were ye as poor as I.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

There lives a lass in yonder park,

I would na gie her under sark,
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark;
Ye need na look sae high.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

CLARINDA.

CLARINDA, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole,
So marks his latest sun.

To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.

We part, but by these precious drops,
That fill thy lovely eyes!

Tune-"Invercauld's Reel."

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day Ye would na been sae shy; For laik o' gear ye lightly me, But troth, I care na by.

YESTREEN I met you on the moor, Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure; Ye geck at me because I'm poor, But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

I doubt na lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name o' clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean,
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean,
Wha follows ony saucy quean

That looks sae proud and high.
O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, If that he want the yellow dirt, Ye'll cast your head anither airt, And answer him fu' dry.

O Tibbie, I hae, &c.

But if he hae the name o' gear, Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,

Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,

Has blest my glorious day: And shall a glimmering planet fix My worship to its ray?

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

Tune "Seventh of November."

THE day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil❜d,

Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet:
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line; Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes, Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature ought of pleasure give!
While joys above, my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below,

Comes in between to make us part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,
It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.

This song was written during the winter of 1787. Miss J. C. daughter of a friend of the Bard, is the heroine.

THE LAZY MIST.

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decayed on Catrine lee,*
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,
But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while,

Tune-" My love is lost to me."

O WERE I on Parnassus hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee. But Nith maun be my muse's well, My muse maun be thy bonnie sel'; On Corsincon I'll glower and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-long simmer's day,
I couldna sing, I couldna say,

How much, how dear, I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en-

By heaven and earth I love thee

By night, by day, a field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And aye
I muse and sing thy name :
I only live to love thee,
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
'Till my last, weary sand was run;
'Till then-and then I love thee.

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle.

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air.
But here, alas! for me nae mair,

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.

O WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan cam to pree;
Three blyther hearts, that lee lang night,
Ye wad na find in Christendie.

"We are na fou, we're nae that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And aye we'll taste the barley bree."

Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys I trow are we; And mony a night we've merry been, And mony mae we hope to be! "We are na fou," &c.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Tune-" Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey."

Or a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west,

*Catrine, in Ayrshire, the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh. Ballochmyle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whitefoord, now of Alexander, Esq (1800.)