The tuneful tribes frae yonder bower,
Wi' sangs of joy thy presence hail;
Then haste, thou bawmy fragrant flower,
And gie thy bosom to the gale.

And see the fair industrious bee,
With airy wheel and soothing hum,
Flies ceaseless round thy parent tree,
While gentle breezes trembling come.
If ruthless Liza pass this way,
She'll pu' thee frae thy thorny stem;
Awhile thou'lt grace her virgin breast,
But soon thou❜lt fade, my bonny gem.
Ah, short, too short, thy rural reign,
And yield to fate, alas! thou must:
Bright emblem of the virgin train,
Thou blooms, alas! to mix wi' dust.

Sae bonny Liza hence may learn,
Wi' every youthfu' maiden gay,
That beauty, like the simmer's rose,
In time shall wither and decay.]

Thou art gane awa.

THIS tune is the same with "Haud awa frae me, Donald."

[Both tune and words of "Thou art gane awa" have been modernized, and not unskilfully the last verse is the best.

THO' you've been false, yet while I live
I'll lo'e nae maid but thee, Mary;
Let friends forget as I forgive

Thy wrangs to them and me, Mary.
So then farewell!-of this be sure,
Since you've been false to me, Mary,
For a' the world I'll not endure

Half what I've done for thee, Mary.]

The Tears I shed must eber fall.

THIS song of genius was composed by a Miss Cranstoun. It wanted four lines, to make all the stanzas suit the music, which I added,

and are the first four of the last stanza.

[Miss Cranstoun was the sister of George, Lord Cranstoun, a Lord of Session in Scotland. She became the second wife of one as accomplished as herself, the celebrated Professor Dugald Stewart of her poetic genius this exquisite song will long continue a striking proof. She died on the 28th of July, 1838, at the age of seventy-one.

THE tears I shed must ever fall;

I weep not for an absent swain,
For time can past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er,
And those they lov'd their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.
Though boundless oceans roll between,
If certain that his heart is near,
A conscious transport glads the scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand remov'd,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb,
To think that ev'n in death he lov'd,
Can cheer the terrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter is the tear

Of her who slighted love bewails, No hopes her gloomy prospect cheer, No pleasing melancholy hails. Her's are the pangs of wounded pride, Of blasted hope, and wither'd joy : prop she lean'd on pierc'd her side, The flame she fed burns to destroy.

The

In vain does memory renew
The scenes once ting'd in transport's dye;
The sad reverse soon meets the view,
And turns the thought to agony.
Ev'n conscious virtue cannot cure
The pangs to ev'ry feeling due;
Ungen'rous youth, thy boast how poor,
To steal a heart, and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,

Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between,

He made me blest-and broke my heart! Hope from its only anchor torn,

Neglected and neglecting all, Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall.]

Dainty Dabie.

THIS song, tradition says, and the composition itself confirms it, was composed on the Rev. David Williamson's begetting the daughter of Lady Cherrytrees with child, while a party of dragoons were searching her house to apprehend him for being an adherent to the solemn league and covenant. The pious woman had put a lady's night-cap on him, and had laid him a-bed with her own daughter, and passed him to the soldiery as a lady, her daughter's bedfellow. A mutilated stanza or two are to be found in Herd's collection, but the original song consists of five or six stanzas, and were their delicacy equal to their wit and huany mour, they would merit a place in tion. The first stanza is as follows:

2 P 2

collec

Being pursued by the dragoons,

Within my bed he was laid down;
And weel I wat he was worth his room,

For he was my daintie Davie.

Ramsay's song, "Luckie Nansy," though he calls it an old song with additions, seems to be all his own, except the chorus:

I was a telling you,
Luckie Nansy, luckie Nansy,
Auld springs wad ding the new,

But ye wad never trow me.

Which I should conjecture to be part of a song, prior to the affair of Williamson.

Leeze me on thy snawy pow, Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy, Dryest wood will eithest low, And Nansy, sae will ye now.

Troth I have sung the sang to you,
Which ne'er anither bard wad do;
Hear then my charitable vow,
Dear venerable Nansy,
But if the warld my passion wrang,
And say, ye only live in sang,
Ken, I despise a sland'ring tongue,
And sing to please my fancy.

Leeze me on thy, &c.

Tytler, on very doubtful authority, says that of this song.]

piest of all Allan Ramsay's songs:—

WHILE fops in soft Italian verse,
Ilk fair ane's een and breast rehearse,
While sangs abound and scene is scarce,
These lines I have indited:

But neither darts nor arrows here,
Venus nor Cupid shall appear,
And yet with these fine sounds I swear,
The maidens are delighted.

I was ay telling you,
Lucky Nansy, lucky Nansy,
Auld springs wad ding the new,
But ye wad never trow me.

Nor snaw with crimson will I mix,
To spread upon my lassie's cheeks;
And syne th' unmeaning name prefix,
Miranda, Chloe, Phillis.

I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove,
My height of extacy to prove,
Nor sighing,-thus-present my love
With roses eke and lilies.

I was ay telling you, &c.

But stay-I had amaist forgot
My mistress and my sang to boot,
And that's an unco' faut, I wot:

But Nansy, 'tis nae matter.
Ye see I clink my verse wi' rhyme,
And, ken ye, that atones the crime;
Forbye, how sweet my numbers chime,
And slide away like water!

I was ay telling you, &c. Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair, Thy runkled cheeks and lyart hair, Thy haff shut een and hodling air,

Are a' my passion's fuel.

Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see, Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee; Yet thou hast charms enow for me,

Then smile, and be na cruel.

I insert this song to introduce the following anecdote, which I have heard well authentcated. In the evening of the day of the bat tle of Dumblane (Sherriff- Muir) when the action was over, a Scots officer, in Argyle's army, observed to his Grace that he we afraid the rebels would give out to the word that they had gotten the victory.“ Wee! weel," returned his Grace, alluding to the fore going ballad, "if they think it be na weel bobbit, we'll bob it again."

[The battle of Dumblane, or Sherriff-Muir, was fought on the 13th of November, 1715, be tween the Earl of Mar, for the Chevalier, and the Duke of Argyle, for the government.Both sides claimed the victory, the left wing of either army being routed. Ritson observes, is very remarkable that the capture of Preston happened on the same day.]

THAT Burns was a great admirer of the ancient minstrelsy of the West of Scotland, his numerous notes on Scottish song sufficiently attest. He was well acquainted with ballad lore, and communicated several interesting specimens to Johnson's Musical Museum: of these "Hughie Graeme," "The Gude Wallace," and the "Lochmaben Harper," are the best: his attention being afterwards drawn to the subject by William Tytler, Esq., of Woodhouselee, he recollected several snatches of old ballads, wrote them down, and sent them to his friend with the following letter:

SIR,-Inclosed I have sent you a sample of the old pieces that are still to be found among our peasantry in the west.-I once had a great many of these fragments, and some of these here entire; but as I had no idea then that any body cared for them, I have forgotten them. I invariably hold it sacrilege to add any thing of my own to help out with the shattered wrecks of these venerable old compositions; but they have many various readings. If you have not seen these before, I know they will flatter your true old-style Caledonian feelings; at any rate, I am truly happy to have an opportunity of assuring you how sincerely I am, Revered Sir, your grateful and obliged humble Servant,

ROBERT BURNS.

Lawnmarket, Edinburgh, August, 1790.

Many compositions of this description he rescued from oblivion, and sent them to the "Scots Musical Museum," and it appears to have been his design to recover all which were worthy of preservation. Several of them underwent his correction and emendation, as the subjoined unpublished extract from one of his letters will testify :

"The songs marked Z in the Museum,' I have given to the world as old verses of their respective tunes; but, in fact, of a good many of them little more than the chorus is ancient, though there is no reason for telling every body this piece of intelligence."

The first of these Ballads is a western version of

The dowie Dens of Darrow.

Tune-Willie's Rare.

NAE birdies sang the mirky hour Amang the braes o' Yarrow,

But slumber'd on the dewy boughs

To wait the waukening morrow. Where shall I gang, my ain true love, Where shall I gang to hide me; For weel ye ken, i' yere father's bow'r, It wad be death to find me.

O go ye to yon tavern house,

An' there count owre your lawin, An' if I be a woman true,

I'll meet you in the dawin'.

O he's gone to yon tavern house,
An' ay he counted his lawin,
An' ay he drank to her guid health
Was to meet him in the dawin'.

O he's gone to yon tavern house,
An' counted owre his lawin,
When in there cam' three armed men,
To meet him in the dawin'.
O, woe be unto woman's wit,
It has beguiled many!
She promised to come hersel'

But she sent three men to slay me!

Get up, get up, now, sister Ann,

I fear we've wrought you sorrow; Get up, ye'll find your true love slain, Among the banks of Yarrow.

She sought him east, she sought him west, She sought him braid and narrow, "Till in the clintin of a craig

She found him drown'd in Yarrow.

She's ta'en three links of her yellow hair,

That hung down lang and yellow, And she's tied it about sweet Willie's waist, An' drawn him out of Yarrow.

I made my love a suit of clothes,
I clad him all in tartan,
But ere the morning sun arose
He was a' bluid to the gartan.

Cetera desunt.

[Hamilton, of Bangour, must have been acquainted with this western version of the "Dowie dens of Yarrow" when he wrote his very affecting ballad it seems also to have been known

to Logan it appears however to have escaped the researches of that most vigilant and poetic of all antiquaries, Sir Walter Scott, whose version in the Border Minstrelsy has little in common with the fragment which the Bard of Ayr preserved. It would seem that Scott had failed in obtaining the entire ballad: his copy begins obscurely as well as abruptly.

LATE at e'en drinking the wine,
And ere they paid the lawing;
They set a combat 'tween them twa,
To fight it in the dawing.

O stay at hame, my noble lord,

O stay at hame, my marrow;
My cruel brother will you betray,
On the dowie houms o' Yarrow.

Two tall grey stones stand about eighty paces distant from each other, to mark out the spot where this contest took place in which both perished but whether they are to be considered as a memorial of the "Willie" of the present ballad is uncertain.]

Rob Roy.

Tune-A rude set of the Mill, Mill, 01

ROB Roy from the Highlands came Unto the Lawlan' border,

To steal awa a gay ladie,

To haud his house in order:
He cam owre the loch o' Lynn,
Twenty men his arms did carry ;
Himsel gaed in an' fand her out,
Protesting he would marry.

O will ye gae wi' me, he says,
Or will ye be my honey;
Or will ye be my wedded wife,
For I love you best of ony:
I winna gae wi' you, she says,
Nor will I be your honey;
Nor will I be your wedded wife,
You love me for my money.

But he set her on a coal black steed,
Himsel lap on behind her;

An' he's awa to the highland hills,
Whare her frien's they canna find her.

[The song went on to narrate the forcing her to bed; when the tune changes to something like "Jenny dang the weaver."]

Rob Roy was my father ca'd, Macgregor was his name, ladie;

He led a band o' heroes bauld,
An' I am here the same, ladie.
Be content, be content,

Be content to stay, ladie;
For thou art my wedded wife
Until thy dying day, ladie.

He was a hedge unto his frien's, A heckle to his foes, ladie; Every one that durst him wrang, He took him by the nose, ladie. I'm as bold, I'm as bold,

I'm as bold, an' more, ladie; He that daurs dispute my word Shall feel my guid claymore, ladie.

["The history of Rob Roy the reader may find at great length in Maclaurin's Criminal Trials. He was the son of the Rob Roy Macgregor who figures in the Rebellion, 1715. The short account of him is this. He was outlawed by sentence of the Court of Justiciary in Scotland, in 1736, for not appearing to stand trial for the murder of a man of the name of Maclaren. In this state of outlawry, he formed the mad and desperate project of carrying off and forcibly accomplishing a marriage with Jane Key, beires of Edinbelly, and thus getting possession of her estate. He and his brother James Macgregor, at the head of a band of armed ruffians, entered her mother's house, dragged her out, and tying her, hand and foot, with ropes, laid her across a horse, and brought her in this situation to the house of one of their clan, in a wild and seques tered part of the mountains of Argyle-shire where, after some show of a marriage ceremony she was put to bed, and forcibly compelled to

submit to his embraces.

On a discovery of the place of her concealment she was rescued by her relations, and Rob Roy, and his brother James, were tried capitally for the crime. James made his escape from pr son before sentence, was outlawed in conse quence, and some years afterwards obtained a pardon. Rob Roy was condemned and exe cuted, February, 1753.”—CROMEK.]

Young Hyndhorn.

To its own Tune.

NEAR Edinburgh was a young son born,
Hey lilelu an' a how low lan',
An' his name it was called young Hyndhorn,
An' its hey down down deedle airo.

Seven long years he served the king,
An' it's a' for the sake of his daughter Jean.

Upon a day he look'd at his ring,
It was as pale as any thing.

He's left the sea, an' he's come to the lan',
An' there he met an auld beggar man.

What news, what news, my auld beggar man,
What news, what news by sea or by lan'.

Nae news, nae news, the auld beggar said,
But the king's dochter Jean is going to be wed.

Cast aff, cast aff thy auld beggar-weed,
An' I'll gie thee my gude grey steed.

[The story of Hynd Horn seems to have been popular with our ancient metre ballad-mongers, for it may be traced in several of the olden strains which delighted our forefathers.

Mr. Cromek seems not to have been aware of the jewel he had picked up, as it is passed over without a single remark. We have been fortunate enough to recover two copies from recitation, which, joined to the stanzas preserved by Mr. Cromek, have enabled us to present it to the public in its present complete state. Though Hynd Horn possesses no claims upon the reader's attention on account of its poetry, yet it is highly valuable as illustrative of the history of romantic ballad. In fact, it is nothing else than a portion of the ancient English metrical romance of "Kyng Horn," which some benevolent pen, peradventure, "for luf of the lewed man," hath stripped of its "quainte Inglis," and given

"In symple speche as he couthe,

That is lightest in maune's mouthe."

Of this the reader will be at once convinced, if he compares it with the romance alluded to, or rather with the fragment of the one preserved in the Auchinleck MS., entitled, "Horne Childe and Maiden Riminild," both of which ancient poems are to be found in Ritson's Metrical Romances. It is, perhaps, unnecessary to remind the reader, that Hend or Hynd means courteous, kind, affable,' &c., epithets, which, we doubt not, the hero of the ballad was fully entitled to assume.-MOTHERWELL.

NEAR Edinburgh was a young child born,
With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan;
And his name it was called young Hynd Horn,
And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie.

Seven long years he served the king,

With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan; And it's a' for the sake of his dochter Jean, And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie.

The king an angry man was he,

With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan; He sent young Hynd Horn to the sea, And the birk and the brume blooms bonnic.

"Oh! I never saw my love before,

With a hey lillelu and a how lo lan, Till I saw her thro' an augre bore, And the birk and the brume blooms bonnie.

"And she gave to me a gay gold ring,

With a hey lillefu and a how lo lan,