THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea ;
Nae lavrock sang on hillock green,

But nature sicken'd on the e'e;
Through faded

groves Maria sang,
Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while;
ay the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle!

And

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair ;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring 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!

Burns lamented the departure of the amiable family of the Whitefords from Ballochmyle, in these two beautiful verses. Catrine is the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. and Ballochmyle is the residence of Boyd Alexander, Esq. To the charms of an Alexander we owe the "Lass of Ballochmyle;" and I have heard it said, that to the coldness of the heroine of that exquisite song we

are indebted for the present lyric. He perhaps sought to set off the beauty and courtesy of one lady against the charms and coldness of another.

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet ;
Though 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 aught 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.

Burns wrote this song in compliment to Robert Riddell of Glenriddell, and his lady. The poet was

VOL. IV.

I

their frequent and welcome guest-and the air of the song was the composition of Glenriddell. The Friar's Carse, where they resided, is a lovely place. I have often felt the fragrance of the numerous flowers with which the garden is filled, and the fields covered, wafted over the Nith as I walked along its banks on a summer Sunday morning. The Hermitage, when I saw it last in 1808, was a refuge for cattle. The floor was littered deep with filth; the shrubs which surrounded it were browzed upon or broken down; the hand of a Londoner, in endeavouring to abstract a pane of glass on which Burns had written some lines, had shivered it into fragments, which were strewn about the floor-I turned away in sorrow. It is now the property of Mrs. Crichton; and the haunt of the poet is respected.

OCH HEY, JOHNIE LAD.

Och hey, Johnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye

Och hey, Johnie lad,

should ha'e been !

Ye didna keep your tryste yestreen!

I waited lang beside the wood,
Sae wae an' weary a' my lane;
Och hey, Johnie lad,

It was a waefu' night yestreen!

I looked by the whinny knowe,
I looked by the firs sae green,
I looked o'er the spunkie howe,

An' ay I thought ye wad hae been.
The ne'er a supper crost my craig,
The ne'er a sleep has clos'd my een ;
Och hey, Johnie lad,

Ye're no sae kind's ye should ha'e been!

Gin ye war waiting by the wood,

It's I was waiting by the thorn;

I thought it was the place we set,
An' waited maist till dawning morn.

But be nae vext, my bonnie lass,

Let my waiting stan' for thine;

We'll awa' to Craigton shaw,

An' seek the joys we tint yestreen.

“Johnie lad” is an imitation of an old lively free song of the same name, which makes the heroine lament the insensibility of her lover to the advantage which a lonely place and a dark night gave him over her. Tannahill, in making the lovers mistake the place of tryste, has varied the story of the song at the expense of probability; but there is much truth and vivacity in the

verses.

THE FLOWER O' DUMBLANE.

The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene,
While lanely I stray in the calm summer gloamin,

To muse on sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom! And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

She's modest as onie, and blithe as she's bonnie,
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain:

And far be the villain, divested of feeling,

Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flow'r o' Dum

blane.

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 flow'r o' Dumblane.

How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie!
The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and vain;

I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie,
Till charm'd wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r of Dum-

blane.