WAE IS MY HEART.

Tune-"Wae is my heart."

WAE is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ;
Lang, lang joy's been a stranger to me:
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear,
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear.

Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep hae I loved;
Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I proved:
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast,
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest.

O, if I were, where happy I hae been !

Down by yon stream and yon bonnie castle green;
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me,
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae his Phillis's e'e.

If any rivals dare proceed I'll shoot them dead,
And guard thee evermore, dear love,

And guard thee evermore.

I'll mourn for your sake, dear love,
Till ye return to shore ;
And if you never do return,
I'll mourn evermore, dear love,
I'll mourn evermore.

But when that I return from seas,
And safe from all those harms,

And when I am in bed with thee,

I'll hug thee in my arms, dear love,
I'll hug thee in my arms.

The last page of this garland has also written upon it, "Robert Burnes," but the hand is obviously not formed.-M.

THE PLOUGHMAN.*

Tune-Up wi' the Ploughman."

THE ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
His mind is ever true, jo ;
His garters knit below his knee,
His bonnet it is blue, jo.

Then up wi' my ploughman lad,
And hey my merry ploughman!
Of a' the trades that I do ken,

Commend me to the ploughman.

Songs in honour of the plough are rife in almost every parish of Scotland. Burns seems to have been indebted for the principal part of the above song, to the lyric under the same title preserved by Herd, in the second volume of his valuable collection, p. 144, which for the sake of comparison we here give:

The ploughman he's a bonny lad,

And a' his wark's at leisure,

And when that he comes hame at ev'n,
He kisses me wi' pleasure.

Up wi't now, my ploughman lad,
Up wi't now, my ploughman;
Of a' the lads that I do see,

Commend me to the ploughman.

Now the blooming spring comes on,
He takes his yoking early,
And whistling o'er the furrow'd land,
He goes to fallow clearly.

Up wi't now, &c.

Whan my ploughman comes hame at ev'n,

He's often wet and weary;

Cast aff the wet, put on the dry,

And gae to bed, my deary.

Up wi't now, &c.

I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will wash his o'erlay,
And I will make my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.

My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
He's aften wat and weary;

Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
And gae to bed, my dearie!

Merry butt, and merry ben,
Merry is my ploughman;
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the ploughman.

Plough you hill, and plough you dale
Plough you faugh and fallow,

Who winna drink the ploughman's health,
Is but a dirty fellow.

Merry butt, and, &c.

Besides this and many others of a like stamp, we have found on the stalls "An Excellent new Song, entituled the Farmer's Glory," which being now somewhat scarce, and as illustrative of the homely strains in which peasantry delighted, we subjoin :

Come all ye merry ploughmen,
Of courage stout and bold,
Who labour all the winter,
Through wind, rain, snow,

and cold,

To clothe our fields with plenty,

And barn-yards to renew,

And crown them with contentment
That hold the painful plough.

Of all the occupations,

And trades of every kind,
Through all manured nations
There is not one I find,
More useful in their station,
You'll find I speak it's true,
Nor is there one so ancient,
As is the painful plough.

Hold ploughman, said the gard'ner,
Count not your trade with ours,
But walk ye through the garden,
And view the early flowers;

See every curious border,

And pleasant walks review;
There's no such piece of pleasur
Performed by the plough.

I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will dress his o'erlay;
I will mak my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.

A paradise of pleasure,
A garden is, ye know,
In Eden was a garden

Five thousand years ago;
And Adam was a gard❜ner,

Just when he was made new, So our trade is more antient Than is the painful plough.

Then said the jolly ploughman,
No calling I despise,
For each man for his living
Upon his trade relies ;
And Adam was a gard❜ner,

Which he has cause to rue,
For soon he lost the garden,
And went to hold the plough.

He had the whole tutation,
Of every thing was there,
Except the tree of knowledge,
Whose fruit appear'd so fair,
That nothing else could please him,
Of all the fruit that grew,

For which he lost the garden,
And went to hold the plough.

Tho' Adam in the garden,
Was set to keep it right,
Yet tell me how long staid he,
For I think not one night,
He eat not of his labours,

But what was not his due,
So was put from the garden,
And sent to hold the plough.

Old Adam was the ploughman,
When ploughing was begun,
The next that him succeeded,
Was Cain his eldest son :

I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been at Saint Johnston ;
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.

Some of each generation,
This calling doth pursue,

That bread might not be wanting,
I mean the painful plough.

There's none that knows the ploughman,

I think will him disdain,

Who toils all kinds of weather,

Each trade for to maintain;

And were it not for the ploughman,
Both rich and poor would rue,

For we have all dependence

Upon the painful plough.

These noble kings and princes,
Who do delight in wars,
Will for some small pretences
Raise up great bloods and jars,
For which they'll raise great armies,
Their purpose to pursue;

Yet those, you know, are maintain'd
By virtue of the plough.

Tho' Samson was a strong man,
And Solomon was wise,
Alexander for to conquer,

Was all that he did prize;

King David he was valiant,
And many thousands slew,
Yet none of these great heroes
Can live without the plough.

You see the wealthy merchants,
Who trade to far countries,
And venture all their substance
Upon the roaring seas,
They live like Indian princes,
Who range the roaring seas,
To bring home foreign treasure,
To those who live at ease;