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The child is then become a man, of age twenty and five: And for his life doth seek a wife, his life and years to spend ; Christ from above send peace and love, and grace unto the end!

Then cometh June with pleasant tune, when fields with flow'rs are clad, And Phoebus bright is at his height, all creatures then are glad : Then he appears of thretty years, with courage bold and stout; His nature so makes him to go,

of death he hath no doubt.

Then July comes with his hot climes, and constant in his kind, The man doth thrive to thirty-five, and sober grows in mind; His children small do on him call, and breed him sturt and strife;

His ears and e'en, and teeth of bane, all these now do him fail;

Then may he say, both night and day, that death shall him assail.

And if there be, thro' natur stout,

some that live ten years more; Or if he creepeth up and down, till he comes to fourscore; Yet all this time is but a line,

no pleasure can he see:

Then may he say, both night and day, have mercy, Lord, on me!

Thus have I shown you as I can,

the course of all mens' life; We will return where we began, but either sturt or strife: Dame Memorie doth take her leave, she'll last no more, we see ;

God grant that I may not you grieve, Ye'll get nae mair of me.

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Then August old, both stout and bold, when flow'rs do stoutly stand; So man appears to forty years,

with wisdom and command; And doth provide his house to guide, children and familie;

Yet do not miss t' remember this, that one day thou must die.

September then comes with his train, and makes the flow'rs to fade; Then man belyve is forty-five,

grave, constant, wise, and staid. When he looks on, how youth is gone,

and shall it no more see; Then may he say, both night and day, have mercy, Lord, on me!

October's blast comes in with boast,

and makes the flow'rs to fall; Then man appears to fifty years, old age doth on him call:

The almond tree doth flourish hie, aud pale grows man we see; Then it is time to use this line, remember, man, to die.

November air maketh fields bare

of flow'rs, of grass, and corn; Then man arrives to bity-five,

and sick both e'en and morn: Loins, legs, and thighs, without disease, makes him to sigh and say, Ah! Christ on high have mind on me, and learn me for to die!

December fell baith sharp and snell,

makes flow'ts creep in the ground; Then man's threescore, both sick and sore, no soundness in him found.

BESS THE GAWKIE.

THIS song shews that the Scottish Muses did not all leave us when we lost Ramsay and Os. wald, as I have good reason to believe that the verses and music are both posterior to the days of these two gentlemen.-It is a beautifulsong, and in the genuine Scots taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this.-Burns,

BLYTHE
Bess to Jean did say,
young
Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,
Where flocks do feed and herds do stray,

And sport awhile wi' Jamie?
Ah na, lass, I'll no gang there,
Nor about Jamie tak nae care,
Nor about Jamie tik nae care,

For he's taen up wi' Maggy!

For hark, and I will tell you, lass,
Did I not see your Jamie pass,
Wi' meikle gladness in his face,

Out o'er the muir to Maggy.
I wat he gae her mony a kiss,
And Maggy took them ne'er amiss;
'Tween ilka smack, pleas'd her with this,
That Bess was but a gawkie.

For when a civil kiss I seek,
She turns her head, and thraws her cheek,

• Oswald was a music-seller in London, about the year 1750. He published a large collection of Scottish tumes, which he called The Caledonian Pocket Companion. M. Tytler ob-erves, that his genius in compo sition, joined to this taste in the performance of Scot tish music, was natural and pathetic. This song has been imputed to a clergyman-Mr. Morehead of Urr in Galloway.

And for an hour she'll scarcely speak;

Who'd not call her a gawkie? But sure my Maggie has mair sense, She'll gie a score without offence; Now gie me ane unto the mense, And ye shall be my dawtie.

O, Jamie, ye ha'e mony tane,
But I will never stand for ane,
Or twa, when we do meet again;
Sae ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah, na, lass, that ne'er can be,

Sic thoughts as these are far from me,
Or ony that sweet face that see,

E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But whisht!-nae mair of this we'll speak,
For yonder Jamie does us meet;
Instead of Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,

I trow he likes the gawkie.
O dear bess, I hardly knew,
When I came by, your gown sae new,
I think you've got it wat wi' dew;
Quoth she, that's like a gawkie :

It's wat wi' dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane,
Sae you may gang the gate you came,
And tell it to your dawtie.
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek;
He cry'd, O cruel maid, but sweet,
If I should gang anither gate,

I ne'er could meet my dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue,
That ever Maggy's face he knew,

Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.

As they went o'er the muir they sang ; The hills and dales with echoes rang, The hills and dales with echoes rang, Gang o'er the muir to Maggy!

FAIR ANNIE OF LOCHROYAN. (ORIGINAL SONG OF-OH OPEN THE DOOR, LORD GREGORY).

It is somewhat singular, that in Lanark, Renfrew, Ayr, Wigton, Kirkcudbright, and Dumfries-shires, there is scarcely an old song or tune which, from the title, &c. can be guessed to belong to, or be the production of these counties. This, I conjecture, is one of these very few; as the ballad, which is a long one, is called both by tradition and in printed collections, The Lass o' Lochroyan, which I take to be Lochroyan in Galloway.-BURNS.

SWEET Annie built a bonnie ship,
And set her on the sea;

The sails were a' of the damask silk,
The masts of silver free.

The gladsome waters sung below,

And the sweet wind sung aboveMake way for Annie of Lochroyan, She comes to seek her love.

A gentle wind came with a sweep,
And stretched her silken sail,
When up there came a reaver rude,
With many a shout and hail :
O touch her not, my mariners a',
Such loveliness goes free;
Make way for Annie of Lochroyan,
She seeks Lord Gregorie.

The moon looked out with all her stars,
The ship moved merrily on,
Until she came to a castle high,

That all as diamonds shone:
On every tower there streamed a light,
On the middle tower shone three-
Move for that tower my mariners a',
My love keeps watch for me.

She took her young son in her arms,
And on the deck she stood-
The wind rose with an angry gust,

The sea wave wakened rude.
Oh open the door, Lord Gregory, love;
Oh open and let me in;

The sea foam hangs in my yellow hair,

The surge dreeps down my chin.

All for thy sake, Lord Gregory, love,
I have sailed the perilous way,
And thy fair son is 'tween my breasts,
And he'll be dead ere day.

The foam hangs on the topmost cliff,

The fires run on the sky,

And hear you not your true love's voice, And her sweet baby's cry?

Fair Annie turned her round about,

And tears began to flow

May never a baby suck a breast

Wi' a heart sae fou of woe.

Take down, take down that silver mast,
Set up a mast of tree,

It does nae become a forsaken dame
To sail sae royallie.

Oh read my dream, my mother, dear-
I heard a sweet babe greet,
And saw fair Annie of Lochroyan

Lie cauld dead at my feet.

And loud and loud his mother laughed-
Oh sights mair sure than sleep,
saw fair Annie, and heard her voice,
And her baby wail and weep.

I

O he went down to yon sea side
As fast as he could fare,

He saw fair Annie and her sweet babe,
But the wild wind tossed them sair;
And hey Annie, and how Annie,

And Annie winna ye bide?

But aye the mair he called Annie, The broader grew the tide.

And hey Annie, and how Annie,

Dear Annie speak to me,

But aye the louder he cried Annie,`

The londer roared the sea.

The wind waxed loud, the sea grew rough,
The ship sunk nigh the shore,
Fair Annie floated through the foam,
But the baby rose no more.

O first he kissed her cherry cheek,
And then he kissed her chin,
And syne he kissed her rosy lips,
But there was nae breath within.
O my love's love was true as light,
As meek and sweet was she—
My mother's hate was strong as death.
And fiercer than the sea.

ROSLIN CASTLE.

THESE beautiful verses were the production of a Richard Hewit, a young man that Dr. Blacklock, to whom I am indebted for the anec. dote, kept for some years as an amanuensis. I do not know who was the author of the second song to the tune. Tytler, in his amusing history of Scots music, gives the air to Oswald; but in Oswald's own collection of Scots tunes, where he affixes an asterisk to those he himself composed, he does not make the least claim to the tune.-BURNS.

'Twas in that season of the year,
When all things gay and sweet appear,
That Colin, with the morning ray,
Arose and sung his rural lay.

Of Nanny's charms the shepherd sung,
The hills and dales with Nanny rung;
While Roslin Castle heard the swain,
And echoed back the cheerful strain.

Awake, sweet Muse! the breathing spring,
With rapture warms; awake and sing!
Awake and join the vocal throng,
Who hail the morning with a song;;
To Nanny raise the cheerful lay,
O! bid her haste and come away;
In sweetest smiles herself adorn,
And add new graces to the morn!

O, hark, my love on ev'ry spray,
Each feather'd warbler tunes his lay;
'Tis beauty fires the ravish'd throng,
And love inspires the melting song:
Then let my raptur'd notes arise,
For beauty darts from Nanny's eyes;
And love my rising bosom warms,
And fills my soul with sweet alarms,

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SAW ye Johnnie cummin? quo' she,
Saw ye Johnnie cummin,

O saw ye Johnnie cummin, quo' she;
Saw ye Johnnie cummin,
Wi' his blue bonnet on his head,

And his doggie runnin, quo' she ;
And his doggie runnin?

Fee him, father, fee him, quo' she;
Fee him, father, fee him:

For he is a gallant lad,

And a weel doin';

And a' the wark about the house

Gaes wi' me when I see him, quo' the ;
Wi' me when I see him.

What will I do wi' him, hussy?
What will I do wi' him?
He's ne'er a sark upon his back,
And I hae nane to gie him.
I hae twa sarks into my kist,
And ane o' them I'll gie him,
And for a mark of mair fee,

Dinna stand wi' him, quo' she ;
Dinna stand wi' him.

For weel do I lo'e him, quo' she;
Weel do I lo'e him:

O fee him, father, fee him, quo' she;
Fee him, father, fee him;

He'll haud the pleugh, thrash i' the barn,
And lie wi' me at e'en, quo' she ;
Lie wi' me at e'en.

CLOUT THE CALDRON.

A TRADITION is mentioned in the Bee, that the second Bishop Chisholm, of Dunblane, used to say, that if he were going to be hanged, nothing would soothe his mind so much by the way, as to hear Clout the Caldron played.

I have met with another tradition, that the the original one, but though it has a very great old song to this tune, deal of merit, it is not quite ladies' reading BURNS.

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Then upo' sight the hailstains thud

fire-side circle of our peasantry; while that | If they command the storms to blaw, which I take to be the old song, is in every shepherd's mouth. Ramsay, I suppose, had thought the old verses unworthy of a place in his collection.-BURNS.

FYE, GAE RUB HER O'ER WI' STRAE.

Ir is self-evident that the first four lines of this song are part of a song more ancient than Ramsay's beautiful verses which are annexed to them. As music is the language of nature; and poetry, particularly songs, are always less or more localized (if I may be allowed the verb) by some of the modifications of time and place, this is the reason why so many of our Scots airs have outlived their original, and perhaps many subsequent sets of verses; except a single name, ar phrase, or sometimes one or two lines, simply to distinguish the tunes by.

To this day among people who know nothing of Ramsay's verses, the following is the song, and all the song that ever I heard :-BURNS.

GIN ye meet a bonnie lassie,

Gie her a kiss and let her gae ;
But gia ye meet a dirty hizzie,
Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

Fye, gae rub her, rub her, rub her,
Fye, gae rub her o'er wi' strae :
An' gin ye meet a dirty hizzie,

Fye, gar rub her o'er wi' strae.

Look up to Pentland's tow'ring tap,
Bury'd beneath great wreaths of snaw,
O'er ilka cleugh, ilk scar, and slap,
As high as ony Roman wa.'

Driving their baws frae whins or tee,
There's no nae gowfers to be seen;
Nor dousser fowk wysing a-jee

The byass-bouls on Tamson's green.

Then fling on coals, and ripe the ribs,

And beek the house baith butt and ben; That mutchkin stowp it hads but dribs, Then let's get in the tappit hen.

Good claret best keeps out the cauld,
And drives away the winter soon;
It makes a man baith gas and bauld,
And heaves his saul beyond the moon,

Leave to the gods your ilka care,

If that they think us worth their while, They can a rowth of blessings spare, Which will our fashious fears beguile.

But soon as ere they cry, "Be quiet,"
The blatt'ring winds dare nae mair move,
But cour into their caves, and wait
The high command of supreme Jovz.

Let neist day come as it thinks fit,
The present minute's only ours;
On pleasure let's employ our wit,
And laugh at fortune's fickle powers.

Be sure ye dinna quat the grip

Of ilka joy when ye are young, Before auld age your vitals nip,

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And lay ye twafald o'er a rung.

Sweet youth's a blythe and heartsome time;
Then, lads and lasses, while it's May,
Gae pou the gowan in its prime,
Before it wither and decay.

Watch the saft minutes of delyte,
When Jenny speaks beneath her breath,
And kisses, laying a' the wyte

On you, if she kepp ony skaith.

"Haith, ye're ill-bred," she'll smiling say s "Ye'll worry me, ye greedy rook Syne frae your arms she'll rin away, And hide hersell in some dark nook.

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Her laugh will lead you to the place Where lies the happiness you want, And plainly tells you to your face, Nineteen nay-says are haff a grant.

Now to her heaving bosom cling,

And sweetly toolie for a kiss, Frae her fair finger whop a ring, As taiken of a future bless.

These bennisons, I'm very sure,

Are of the gods' indulgent grant; Then, surly carles, whisht, forbear To plague us with your whining cant.

THE LASS O' LIVISTON.

THE old song, in three eight-line stanzas, is well known, and has merit as to wit and hu mour; but it is rather unfit for insertion.-It begins,

THE bonnie lass o' Liviston,

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken, And she has written in her contract, To lie her lane, to lie her lane.

&c. &c.

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