SWEET CLOSES THE EVENING.*

Tune-" Craigie-burn-wood."

CHORUS.

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O, to be lying beyond thee;
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep
That's laid in the bed beyond thee!

SWEET closes the evening on Craigie-burn-wood,
And blithely awaukens the morrow;

But the pride of the spring in the Craigie-burn-wood
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.

I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.

I canna tell, I maunna tell,

I darena for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

I see thee gracefu', straight and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonnie;

* The heroine of this song was a Miss LORIMER, to whom, under the name of CHLORIS, the poet has addressed several of his most enchanting songs, and who lived at Craigie-burn, near Moffat. "The air," says Mr Thomson, "is probably a production of that country, which the poet considers as the confine of the district where the greatest part of our Lowland music has been composed, as far as we venture to localise it from the title, the words, &c. From Craigie-burn," he says, "till one reaches the West Highlands we have scarcely any slow air of antiquity."-M.

But oh, what will my torments be,
If thou refuse thy Johnnie!

To see thee in anither's arms,
In love to lie and languish,
'Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi' anguish.

But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say thou lo'es nane before me;
And a' my days o' life to come
I'll gratefully adore thee.

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O, to be lying beyond thee;
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep
That's laid in the bed beyond thee!

MY HEART WAS ANCE.*

Tune-"To the Weavers gin ye go."

My heart was ance as blithe and free
As simmer days were lang,
But a bonnie, westlin weaver lad

Has gart me change my sang.

The chorus of this song is taken from the following ancient ditty, which we give as taken down by Mr Buchan, from the recitation of a very old man, who learned it in his infancy.—Mr Buchan adds, "I never saw it in print."

The weaver, the weaver,

The weaver o' the green,

There will something fa' the weaver
That dwalls in Muir o' Steen.

To the weaver gin ye go,

To the weaver gin ye go;

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;

I rede you right gang ne'er at night
To the weavers gin ye go.

My mither sent me to the town,
To warp a plaiden wab;
But the weary weary warpin o't
Has gart me sigh and sab.

A bonnie westlin weaver lad,
Sat working at his loom ;
He took my heart as wi' a net,
In every knot and thrum.

I sat beside my warpin-wheel,
And aye I ca'd it roun';
But every shot and every knock,
My heart it gae a stoun.

The moon was sinking in the west
Wi' visage pale and wan,
As my bonnie westlin weaver lad
Convoy'd me thro' the glen.

But what was said, or what was done,
Shame fa' me gin I tell ;

The indelicacy of the concluding verses makes them perfectly in admissible.-M.

But, oh! I fear the kintra soon
Will ken as weel's mysel.

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids,
To the weavers gin ye go;

I rede you right gang ne'er at night,
To the weavers gin ye go.

WHEN WILD WAR'S DEADLY BLAST..

Tune-" The Mill, Mill O."

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning.
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor but honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hands unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,

I cheery on did wander.

* Mr Thomson, in his Select Melodies, Vol. I. p. 23, mentions that the following incident relative to this song was recently communicated to him by a friend, a clergyman in Dumfriesshire: "Burns, I have been informed, was one summer evening at the inn at Brownhill with a couple of friends, when a poor way-worl soldier passed the window: of a sudden it struck the poet to call him in, and get the story of his adventures; after listening to which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction not unusual with him. He was lifted to the region where he had his 'Garland and Singing Robes about him,' and the result was the admirable song which he sent you for the Mill, Mill O.'"-M.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,

I thought upon her witching smile,
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted;
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom : My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've served my king and country lang. Take pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier grew than ever:
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed;
Forget him shall I never .
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake o't,

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't!

She gaz'd—she redden'd like a rose— Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,

Art thou my ain dear Willie !