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She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny;
Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dumblane.
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain;
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
VIII.-THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.
AR lone amang the Highland hills,
'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens, and woody glens,
The langsome way, the darksome day,
Yon mossy rosebud down the howe,
Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
There Av'rice guides the bounding prow
Let Fortune pour her golden store,
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
IX.-THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.
ET us go, lassie, go,
To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blaeberries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
I will twine thee a bower
By the clear siller fountain,
Wi' the flowers o' the mountain;
And return wi' their spoils
To the bower o' my dearie.
When the rude wintry win'
Idly raves round our dwelling,
On the night breeze is swelling;
So merrily we'll sing,
As the storm rattles o'er us,
Wi' the light lilting chorus.
Now the summer is in prime,
X-BY YON BURN SIDE.
WE'LL meet beside the dusky glen, on yon burn side,
Though the broomy knowes be green,
Yet, there we may be seen,
But we'll meet-we'll meet at e'en, down by yon burn side.
I'll lead thee to the birken bower, on yon burn side,
Ne'er disturbs the lovers' joy,
While in ither's arms they lie, down by yon burn side.
Awa', ye rude, unfeeling crew, frae yon burn side,
By the sweetly murm'ring stream,
And the rock-lodged echoes skim, down by yon burn side.
Now the plantin taps are tinged wi' goud, on yon burn si And gloamin' draws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side Far frae the noisy scene,
I'll through the fields alane,
There we'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn si
XI.-O, ARE YE SLEEPING, MAGGIE?
ARE ye sleepin', Maggie?
O, are ye sleepin', Maggie ?
Let me in, for loud the linn
Is roaring o'er the warlock craigie !
Mirk and rainy is the night;
No a starn in a' the carry:
Fearfu' soughs the bour-tree bank;
The rifted wood roars wild and drearie;
And cry o' howlets mak's me eerie.
Aboon my breath I daurna speak,
For fear I raise your waukrife daddy;
Now, since ye're wakin', Maggie,
For bour-tree bank and warlock craigie?
Walter Savage Landor.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR was born at Warwick, on January 30th, 1775, and was sprung of a family which had long been one of the best in Staffordshire. His father, Dr. Landor, had married a second wife, a Miss Elizabeth Savage, and Walter Savage Landor was the eldest of her three sons. Upon him were entailed her own estate, amounting to about £80,000, and Dr. Landor's property in Staffordshire. In his fifth year he was sent to a school at Knowles, and, in his tenth, to Rugby, where he distinguished himself as one of the best Latin scholars. As a boy he was an eager reader, and showed, moreover, a wonderful love for trees and flowers and brooks. In his sixteenth year he quarrelled with his master (whom he proved to have erred in regard to a Latin quantity), and had to leave Rugby in consequence. At the age of eighteen he went up to Trinity College, Oxford, where his talents were at once recognised, but where he would not compete for any University distinction. He became notorious as a "mad Jacobin," and was rusticated for having sent a charge of shot through the window of another undergraduate. Having quarrelled with his father, he went up to London on an allowance of £150 a year; studied French and Italian; and in 1795 published "The Poems of Walter Savage Landor," a volume of conventional