MARY'S DREAM. THE Mary here alluded to is generally supto be Miss Mary Macghie, daughter to the aird of Airds, in Galloway. The poet pe He wad neither ly in barn, nor yet wad he in But in ahint the ha' door, or else afore the fire, was a Mr. Alexander Lowe, who likewise The beggar's bed was made at e'en wi' good wrote another beautiful song, called Pompey's clean straw and hay, lay, Ghost. I have seen a poetic epistle from him And in ahint the ha' door, and there the beggar in North America, where he now is, or lately was, to a lady in Scotland.-By the strain of the verses, it appeared that they allude to some love disappointment. THE moon had climb'd the highest hill, Her silver light on tow'r and tree: Her thoughts on Sandy far at sea; When soft and low a voice was heard, Saying, Mary, weep no more for me. She from her pillow gently rais'd Her head to ask, who there might be; It lies beneath a stormy sea; Three stormy nights and stormy days We toss'd upon the raging main; And long we strove our bark to save, But all our striving was in vain. O maiden dear, thyself prepare, THE JOLLY BEGGAR. And we'll gang nae mair, &c. Up raise the good man's dochter, and for to bar the door, And there she saw the beggar standin i̇' the floor, And we'll gang nae mair, &c. He took the lassie in his arms, and to the bed he ran, O hooly, hooly wi' me, sir, ye'll waken our goodman, And we'll gang nae mair, &c. The beggar was a cunnin loon, and ne'er a word he spake, Until he got his turn done, syne he began to crack, And we'll gang nae mair, &c. Is there ony dogs into this town? maiden, tell me true, And what wad ye do wi' them, my hinny and my dow? And we'll gang nae mair, &c. They'll rive a' my mealpocks, and do me meikle wrang, O dool for the doing o't! are ye the puir man? Then she took up the mealpocks and flang them. o'er the wa', The deil gae wi' the mealpocks, my maidenhead and a', And we'll gang nae mair, &c. I took ye for some gentleman, at least the laird O dool for the doing o't! are ye the puir bodie? SAID to have been composed oy King James He took the lassie in his arms, and gae her kisses V., on a frolic of his own. THERE was a jolly beggar, and a begging he was boun', And he took up his quarters into a land'art town, And we'll gang nae mair a roving, Sae late into the night, And we'll gang nae mair a roving, boys, three, And four-and-twenty hunder merk to pay the nurice-fee, And we'll gang nae mair, &c. He took a horn frae his side, and blew baith loud and shrill, And four-and-twenty belted knights came skipping o'er the hill, And we'll gang nae mair, &c. When 'tis carded, row'd and spun Sing, my bonny harmless sheep, That feed upon the mountain's steep, Bleating sweetly as ye go, Thro' the winter's frost and snow; Frae kings to him that hads the plow, Up, ye shepherds, dance and skip, O'er the hills and vallies trip, Sing up the praise of tarry woo, THIS Dudgeon is a respectable farmer's son Sing the flocks that bear it too; in Berwickshire. Harmless creatures without blame, That clead the back, and cram the wame, He had the art to please ye, He lov'd beyond expression The charms that were about her, And panted for possession, His life was dull without her. After mature resolving, Close to his breast he held her In saftest flames dissolving, He tenderly thus tell'd her : My bonny collier's daughter, Let naething discompose ye, 'Tis no your scanty tocher Shall ever gar me lose ye: For I have gear in plenty, And love says, 'Tis my duty To ware what heav'n has lent me Upon your wit and beauty. MY AIN KIND DEARIE-O. THE old words of this song are omitted here, though much more beautiful than these inserted; which were mostly composed by poor Fergusson, in one of his inerry humours.-The old words began thus: I'LL rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, I'll rowe thee o'er the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie, O, Altho' the night were ne'er sae wat, WILL ye gang o'er the lea-rig, We'll daff and ne'er be weary, O; Nae herds, wi' kent or colly, there, Shall woo, like me, their dearie, O. While others herd their lambs and yowes, And toil for warld's gear, my jo; Upon the lea, my pleasure grows, DOWN THE BURN, DAVIE. I have been informed, that the tune of Down the Burn, Davie, was the composition of David Maigh, keeper of the blood slough hounds, be longing to the Laird of Riddel, in Tweeddale. WHEN trees did bud, and fields were green, And love laugh'd in her e'e; Now Davie did each lad surpass, That dwalt on yon burn side, And Mary was the bonniest lass, Just meet to be a bride; Her cheeks were rosie, red and white, Her een were bonnie blue; Her looks were like Aurora bright, Her lips like dropping dew. As down the burn they took their way, What pass'd, I guess, was harmless play, They lik'd a walk sae sweet; Sic pleasure to renew ; BLINK O'ER THE BURN, SWEET BETTY. THE old words, all that I remember, are,— BLINK over the burn, sweet Betty, It is a cauld winter night; It rains, it hails, it thunders, The moon she gies nae light: It's a' for the sake o' sweet Betty, That ever I tint my way; Sweet, let me lie beyond thee, Until it be break o' day. O, Betty will bake my bread, And Betty will brew my ale, And Betty will be my love, When I come over the dale: The last four lines of the third stanza, being somewhat objectionable in point of delicacy, are omitted. Burns altered these lines. Had his alteration been attended with his usual success, it would have been adopted. O gie me down my bigonets, For I maun tell the bailie's wife My Sunday's shoon they maun gae on, It's a' to please my ain gudeman, For there's nae luck, &c. Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speech, For there's nae luck, &c. The cauld blasts of the winter wind, The present moment is our ain, For there's nae luck, &c. Since Colin's well, I'm well content, I hae nae mair to crave; Could I but live to mak him blest, I'm blest aboon the lave; And will I see his face again! And will I hear him speak! I'm downright dizzy with the though In troth I'm like to greet! JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE. JOHN HAY'S Bonnie Lassie was daughter of John Hay, Earl, or Marquis of Tweeddale, and late Countess Dowager of Roxburgh. She died at Broomlands, near Kelso, some time between the years 1720 and 1740. By smooth winding Tay a swain was reclining, Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stronger; She's fresh as the Spring, and sweet as Aurora, When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good morrow; The swaird of the mead, enamell'd wi' daisies, It is now ascertained that Meikle, the translator Looks wither'd and dead when twin'd of her of Camoens, was the author of this song. graces. But if she appear where verdure invites her, The fountains run clear, and flowers smell the sweeter; Since my love is unfaithful, "Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing, Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glow-In nought I have offended, ing. The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded, THE BONNIE BRUCKET LASSIE. THE idea of this song is to me very original : the two first lines are all of it that is old. The rest of the song, as well as those songs in the Museum marked T, are the works of an obscure, tippling, but extraordinary body of the name of Tytler, commonly known by the name of Balballoon: loon Tytler, from his having projected a A mortal, who, though he drudges about Edinburgh as a common printer, with leaky shoes, a sky-lighted hat, and knee-buckles as unlike as George-by-the-Grace-of-God, and Solomon-the Son-of-David; yet that same unknown drunken mortal is author and compiler of three-fourths Elliot's pompous Encyclopedia Britannica, which he composed at half a guinea a week!• But loving him too well." Her lover heard her mourning, The lovely brucket lass : SAE MERRY AS WE TWA HA’E BEEN. THIS song is beautiful.-The chorus in particular is truly pathetic.--I never could learn any thing of its author. I A LASS that was laden with care When thus she began for to mourn: When I think on the days we hae seen. Our flocks feeding close by his side, I view'd the wide world in its pride, What makes you hard-hearted to me? But now he is far from my sight, THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. THIS is another beautiful song of Mr. Craw ford's composition. In the neighbourhood of Traquair, tradition still shews the old "Bush ;" which, when I saw it in the year 1787, was |