"Twas not her golden ringlets bright;
Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom, lily-white-

It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd,
She charm'd my soul I wistna how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Cam frae her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed;
She'll aiblins listen to my vow :
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead
To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

TAM GLEN.*

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,
Some counsel unto me come len',

To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow.
In poortith I might mak a feu';
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I mauna marry Tam Glen?

There's Lowrie the laird o' Drumeller,

"Guid day to you," brute, he comes ben;

He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men ;

This is a capital song, and true in all its touches to nature. It is very popular.-M.

They flatter, she says, to deceive me,
But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen ?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten;
But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing,
My heart to my mou gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written, Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I lay waukin

;

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken
His likeness cam up the house staukin,
And the very grey breeks o' Tam Glen!

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry ;
I'll gie you my bonnie black hen,

O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL!"

Tune-"My love is lost to me."

O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill!
Or had of Helicon my fill;
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.

This is a beautiful song, and in it the poet welcomes his wife to Nithsdale. The Rev. Hamilton Paul says: "There is nothing in the whole circle of lyric poetry, ancient or modern, to be named with it. It bids defiance to comparison:

But Nith maun be my muse's well,
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel,
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay,
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day,
I couldna sing, I couldna say,

How much, how dear I love thee.
I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een-
By heaven and earth I love thee!

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame ;
And aye I muse and sing thy name,

I only live to love thee.

Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run;
Till then-and then I'll love thee.

I see thee dancing on the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een-

By heaven and earth I love thee!

He draws

This is what may be called the paroxysm of desire. the picture from Nature, he becomes enamoured, he forgets himself, he pants for breath, he is unable to continue the description, and he gives utterance to his feelings in an oath

By heaven and earth I love thee!"

M.

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

Tune-"Seventh of November."

THE day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' 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.

* Written in honour of the anniversary of the marriage of Mr and Mrs Riddel of Friars Carse. In Johnson's Musical Museum the air is marked as the composition of Mr Riddel; but as Mr Thomson remarks, "If it be so, Burns' silence as to that circumstance is unaccountable, considering how eagerly he inquired after the origin of our airs." The correspondence betwixt the poet and Johnson is unfortunately not extant, otherwise this point would in all probability have been cleared up.— M.

THE LAZY MIST.*

Tune-"Here's a health to my true love."

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear,
As autumn to winter resigns the pale year.

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown:
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,

How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues;

How long I have liv'd-but how much liv'd in vain:
How little of life's scanty span may remain :
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn;
What ties cruel Fate in my bosom has torn.

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd!
And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!
This life's not worth having with all it can give,
For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

*This song, although it passed for some time as the composition of Dr Blacklock, is at length ascertained to have been written by Burns.-M.

N