The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there;
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day;
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near,
And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her een sae clear;
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' luve,
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above,
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve,
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll join the scented birk, to the breathing eglantine,
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Jean.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view,

The morning's fragrance breathing like her sweet bonnie mou; The hyacinth, of constancy the symbol, shall be seen,

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Jean.

I'll pu' the lily pure, that adorns the dewy vale,

The richly blooming hawthorn, that scents the vernal gale,
The daisy for simplicity, and unaffected mien,

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Jean.

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near,

Gemm'd wi' diamond drops o' dew, like her twa' een sae clear, The violet all modesty, the odour-breathing bean,

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear Jean.

I'll tie the posie round with the silken band o' luve,

And I'll place it in her bosom, and I'll pray the powers above. That to our latest breath o' life, the band may aye remain, And this will be a posie to my ain dear Jean.

M.

AFTON WATER.

Tune-"The yellow-haired laddie."

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

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,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ;*
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As gathering sweet flow'rets 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.

* Afton-Water is the stream on which stands Afton-lodge: to which Mrs Stewart removed from Stair.-Afton-lodge was Mrs Stewart's property from her father. The song was presented to her in return for her notice, the first he ever received from any person in her rank of life.- Currie.

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS.

Tune-"Lass of Inverness."

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 blin's 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 bluidy 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,t
A bluidy man I trow thou be;
For mony a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.

O MAY, THY MORN.

Tune-"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 darena 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 guid watch o'er them;

* Culloden Moor.

William, Duke of Cumberland.

And here's to them, we darena tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.

And here's to, &c.

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN ?*

Tune "I'll aye ca' in by yon town."

O, WAT ye wha's in yon town,
Ye see the e'enin sun upon?
The fairest dame's in yon town,
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw,
She wanders by yon spreading tree :
How blest ye flowers that round 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 blithe in yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

The heroine of this song, Mrs Oswald, of Auchineruive, Ayrshire, (formerly Miss Lucy Johnstone,) died lately at Lisbon. This most accomplished and most lovely woman was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband, as the reader will have observed by our bard's letter to Mr Syme, enclosing this song, in Vol. ii. (1799.)-Currie.

It is well known and quite apparent, that this song was written on Mrs Burns, when she was Miss Armour, but from certain and uncertain circumstances was not published in the first editions. When it was published, the name was Jeanie, not Lucy, and must have been merely altered afterwards to suit Mrs Oswald.-H.

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 is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear;
I careless quit aught else below,
But spare me, spare me Lucy dear.

For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart,
And she-as fairest is her form!

She has the truest, kindest heart.

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE.*

I GAED a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,

Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.

*The heroine of this song was Miss Jean Jeffrey, daughter of the minister of Lochmaben. This lady, now Mrs Renwick, after residing sometime in Liverpool, ultimately settled with her husband in New-York, North America. Mr Riddell of Glenriddell composed the air. "Alace, I vyit zour twa fair ene," is the title of an old Scottish lyric mentioned in the Complaynt of Scotland, which is now lost.-M.