SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.

SHE'S fair and fause that causes my smart,

I lo'ed her meikle and lang;

She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart,
And I may e'en gae hang.

A coof cam in with routh o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear,
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove,
A woman has't by kind:

O woman, lovely woman, fair!
An angel form's faun to thy share,
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair,
I mean an angel mind.

BONNIE BELL

THE smiling Spring comes in rejoicing,
And surly Winter grimly flies;
Now crystal clear are the falling waters,
And bonnie blue are the sunny skies;
Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth the
morning,

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell;
All creatures joy in the sun's returning,
And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.

The flowry Spring leads sunny Summer,
And yellow Autumn presses near,
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter,
'Till smiling Spring again appear.
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old Time and Nature their changes tell,
But never ranging, still unchanging
I adore my bonnie Bell.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow:

There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,

me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cut where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters ber snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flowerets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,

Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

LOUIS, what reck I by thee,

Or Geordie on his ocean;

Dyvor beggar louns to me,
I reign in Jeanie's bosom,

Let her crown my love her law,

And in her breast enthrone me:

Kings and nations, swith awa!
Reif randies I disown ye!

* In some editions sailor is substituted for weaver.

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY.

My heart is sair, I dare nae tell,
My heart is sair for somebody;
I could wake a winter night
For the sake of somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!

I could range the world around,
For the sake of somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
O sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!

I wad do-what wad I not,
For the sake of somebody!

O do thou kindly lay me low With him I love at rest!

O MAY, THY MORN.

O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet,
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,

And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I darna name,
But I will aye remember
And dear, &c.

And here's to them, that like oursel,
Can push about the jorum ;
And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gude watch o'er them;
And here's to them, we darna tell,
The dearest o' the quorum,
And here's to, &c.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVER.

NESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, alas! And aye the saut tear blins her e'e: Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear,

My father dear, and brethren three.

Their winding sheet the bloody clay, Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad

That ever blest a woman's e'e! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE

DEATH OF HER SON.

Tune-" Finlayston House."

FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
And pierced my darling's heart:
And with him all the joys are fled
Life can to me impart.

By cruel hands the sapling drops,
In dust dishonour'd laid :
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
My age's future shade.

The mother linnet in the brake
Bewails her ravished young;
So I for my lost darling's sake,
Lament the live-day long.
Death, oft I've fear'd thy fatal blow,
Now fond I bare my breast,

O WHAT YE WHAS IN YON TOWN.

O WHAT ye wha's in yon town,

Ye see the e'ening sun upon, The fairest dame's in yon town,

That e'ening sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,

She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest ye flow'rs that mind her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e.

How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Lucy dear.

The sun blinks blythe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms, O' paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Tho' raging winter rent the air;
And she a lovely little flower,
That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town,

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town, His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry fate has sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear;

Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld,
Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd;
When, lo, in form of minstrel auld,

A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd.

This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive it being omitted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Liberty, perhaps fortu. nately for his reputation. It may be questioned whe ther, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation.

They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside: She took to her bills and her arrows let fly,

The daring invaders they fled or they died.

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north,

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ;t

The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth
To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore:

vail'd,

The Romans. +The Saxons. The Danes. Two famous battles, in which the Danes or Norwe gians were defeated.

The Highlanders of the Isles.

This singular figure of poetry, taken from the mathematics, refers to the famous proposition of Pythe square of the hypothenuse is always equal to the thagoras, the 47th of Euclid. In a right-angled triangle,

squares of the two other sides.

THE FOLLOWING POEM

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE.

KIND sir, I've read your paper through,
And faith, to me, 'twas really knew!
How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted?
This mony a day I've grain'd and gaunted,
To ken what French mischief was brewin';
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin';
That vile doup skelper, Emperor Joseph,
If Venus yet had got his nose off;
Or how the collieshangie works
Atween the Russian and the Turks;
Or if the Swede, before he halt,
Would play anither Charles the Twalt!
If Denmark, ony body spak o't;

Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't;
How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin';
How libbet Italy was singin;

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss,
Were sayin or takin ought amiss :
Or how our merry lads at hame,
In Britain's court kept up the game:
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him!
Was managing St Stephen's quorum ;
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin,
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in ;
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin,
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin;
How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed,
Or if bare a- yet were taxed;

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls,
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls;
If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales,
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails,
Or if he was growin oughtlins douser,
And no a perfect kintra cooser.-
A' this and mair I never heard of;
And, but for you, I might despair'd of.
So gratefu', back your news I send you,
And pray, a' guid things may attend you!
ELLISLAND, Monday Morning, 1790.

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; Squire Pope but busks his skinlin patches O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air
And rural grace;

And wi' the far-famed Grecian share
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan !
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel so clever;
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan,
But thou's for ever.

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,
While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes; Or trots by hazelly shaws or braes,

Wi' hawthorns gray, Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel;
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love,

That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.