PEGGY'S CHARMS.

This song I composed on one of the most accomplished o women, Miss Peggy Chalmers that was, now Mrs. Lewis Hay, of Forbes and Co.'s Bank, Edinburgh.'-Burns' Reliques.

Tune.-Neil Gow's Lament for Abercairney.

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

Far in the shade my Peggy's charms
First blest my wondering eyes :
As one who by some savage stream
A lonely gem surveys,

Astonish'd, doubly marks its beam,
With art's most polish'd 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 power!

The tyrant Death, with grim control,
May seize my fleeting breath;
But tearing Peggy from my soul
Must be a stronger death.

TAM GLEN.

Burns submitted this song to several of his friends as a lyric of the olden time, and heard it praised before he acknowledged it his own. The old Tam Glen,' however, has assisted both in the conception and expression of the new.

Tune.-The mucking o' Geordie's byre.
My heart is a breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len';P
To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow,
In poortitha I might mak a fen':"
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I maunas marry Tam Glen?

• A female confidante.
r Fend-to live comfortably.

? Lend.

g Poverty.

s Must not.

There's Lowrie, the laird o' Drumeller, 'Gude day to you, brute,' he comes ben :t He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

He roos'd' my een sae bonnie blue,
He roos'd my waist sae gentyk sma';
And ay my heart came to my mou,'
When ne'er a body heard or saw.

My Jockey toils upon the plain,

Thro' wind and sleet, thro' frost and snaw; And o'er the leem I look fu' fain

When Jockey's owsenn hameward ca'.o

And ay the night comes round again,

When in his arms he taks me a';

And ay he vows he 'll be my ain

As lang 's he has a breath to draw.

BLYTHE HAE I BEEN ON YON HILL. Tune.-Liggeram cosh.

'Liggeram cosh' is a delightful air. I have become such an enthusiast about it, that I have made a song for it, which I think is not in my worst manner.-Letter to Mr. Thomson.

BLYTHE hae I been on yon hill,

As the lambs before me;
Careless ilka thought and free,
As the breeze flew o'er me:
Now nae langer sport and play,
Mirth or sang can please me;
Leslie is sae fair and coy,

Care and anguish seize me.

Heavy, heavy is the task,

Hopeless love declaring:
Trembling, I do nocht but glow'r,
Sighing, dumb, despairing!
If she winna ease the thraws
In my bosom swelling,
Underneath the grass green sod
Soon maun be my dwelling.

⚫ Praised.

m Grass fields.

k Elegantly formed.
n Oxen.

/Mouth.
o Drive.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

In the first volume of a collection, entitled Poetry, Original and Selected,' published by Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, In 1801, this song is inserted, with four additional stanzas, said to be by Robert Burns. Of these additional stanzas, Dr. Currie says, 'Every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand.'

JOHN Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;"
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,*
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie" day, John,
We 've had wi' ane anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.

OLD AGE.

This song,' says Allan Cunningham, has never been a favourite. Youth wishes to enjoy the golden time upon its hands, and age is far from fond of chanting of declining strength, white pows, and general listlessness.

Tune.-The death of the Linnet.

But lately seen in gladsome green
The woods rejoiced the day,

Thro' gentle showers the laughing flowers
In double pride were gay:

But now our joys are fled,

On winter blasts awa;
Yet maiden May, in rich array,
Again shall bring them a'.

Sweetheart.

& Smooth

t Grey hairs. u Cheerful

But my white pow, nae kindly thowe
Shall melt the snaws of age;
My trunk of eild,a but buss or bield,b
Sinks in time's wint'ry rage.
Oh, age has weary days,

And nights o' sleepless pain:
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime,
Why com'st thou not again?

MARY MORRISON.

'Mary Morrison,' says Burns in a letter to Thomson, is one of my juvenile works. I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits.' All his critics and commen tators, however, agree in thinking it one of the best songs he

ever wrote.

Tune.-Bide ye yet.

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trystedd hour;
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blythely wad I bid the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morrison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed round the lighted ha','
To thee my fancy took its wing-

I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Though this was fair and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said, amang them a',
Ye are na Mary Morrison.'

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?

y Head. Appointed.

2 Thaw.
a Old age.
e Dust in motion.

b Without shelter.
f Hall.
g Fine.