'Tis love maks the sang o' the woodland sae cheery;

Love gars a' Nature look bonnie that's near ye;
That maks the rose sae sweet,
Cowslip an' violet-

O, Jeanie, there's naething to fear ye!

WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME.* AIR-"Shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't."

COME all ye jolly shepherds,

That whistle through the glen, I'll tell ye of a secret

That courtiers dinna ken: What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?
"Tis to woo a bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
"Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk
When the kye comes hame.

"Tis not beneath the coronet,
Nor canopy of state,
'Tis not on couch of velvet,
Nor arbour of the great-
"Tis beneath the spreadin' birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, etc.

There the blackbird bigs his nest
For the mate he lo'es to see,
And on the topmost bough,
O, a happy bird is he;"
Where he pours his melting ditty,
And love is a' the theme,
And he'll woo his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, etc.

When the blewart bears a pearl,
And the daisy turns a pea,
And the bonny lucken gowan

Has fauldit up her e'e,

Then the laverock frae the blue lift Doops down, an' thinks nae shame To woo his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.

When the kye comes hame, etc.

See yonder pawkie shepherd,
That lingers on the hill,

His ewes are in the fauld,

An' his lambs are lying still;

In the title and chorus of this favourite pastoral song, I choose rather to violate a rule in grammar, than a Scottish phrase so common, that when it is altered into the proper way, every shepherd and shepherd's sweetheart account it nonsense. I was once singing it at a wedding with great glee the latter way, When the kye come hame," when a tailor, scratching his head, said, "It was a terrible affectit way that!' I stood corrected, and have never sung it so again.-Hogg.

Yet he downa gang to bed,
For his heart is in a flame,
To meet his bonny lassie

When the kye comes hame.
When the kye comes hame, etc.
When the little wee bit heart
Rises high in the breast,
An' the little wee bit starn
Rises red in the east,
O there's a joy sae dear

That the heart can hardly frame,
Wi' a bonny, bonny lassie,
When the kye comes hame!

When the kye comes hame, etc.

Then since all Nature joins
In this love without alloy,
O, wha would prove a traitor
To Nature's dearest joy?
Or wha would choose a crown,
Wi' its perils and its fame,
And miss his bonny lassie
When the kye comes hame?

When the kye comes hame,
When the kye comes hame,
"Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk,
When the kye comes hame!

MISCHIEVOUS WOMAN.

Could this ill warld ha'e been contrived
To stand without mischievous woman,
How peacefu' bodies might ha'e lived
Retired from a' the ills sae common !
But since it is the waefu' case

That man maun ha'e this crazing crony; Why sic a sweet bewitching face?

Oh, had she no been made sae bonny!
I might ha'e roam'd wi' cheerfu' mind,
Nae sin or sorrow to betide me,
As careless as the wandering wind,

As happy as the lamb beside me.
I might ha'e screw'd my tunefu' pegs,
And caroll'd mountain airs fu' gaily,
Had we but wanted a' the Megs

Wi' glossy e'en sae dark and wily.
I saw the danger, fear'd the dart,
The smile, the air, an' a' sae taking,
Yet open laid my wareless heart,

And gat the wound that keeps me waking. My harp waves on the willow green,

O' wild witch-notes it has nae ony,
Sin' e'er I saw that gawky quean,
Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonny!

THE WOMEN FOLK.*

O SARELY may I rue the day
I fancied first the womenkind;
For aye sinsyne I ne'er can ha'e

Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!

* The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set, too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favourite humorous song when forced by ladies to sing against my will, which too frequently happens; and notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again.-For the air, see the "Border Garland."-Hogg.

They ha'e plagued my heart, an' pleased my e'e,
An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
But aye, for a' their witchery,

The pawky things I lo'e them still.

O, the women folk! O, the women folk!
But they ha'e been the wreck o' me;
O, weary fa' the women folk,

For they winna let a body be!

I ha'e thought an' thought, but darena tell,
I've studied them wi' a' my skill,
I've lo'ed them better than mysel,
I've tried again to like them ill.
Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
To comprehend what nae man can;
When he has done what man can do,
He'll end at last where he began.

O, the women folk! etc.

That they ha'e gentle forms an' meet,
A man wi' half a look may see;
An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,

An' waving curls aboon the bree;
An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud,
An' e'en sae pawky, bright, an' rare,
Wad lure the laverock frae the clud-
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
O, the women folk! etc.

Even but this night, nae farther gane,
The date is neither lost nor lang,

I tak ye witness, ilka ane,

How fell they fought, and fairly dang.
Their point they've carried, right or wrang,
Without a reason, rhyme, or law,

An' forced a man to sing a sang,
That ne'er could sing a verse ava'.

O, the women folk! O, the women folk!
But they ha'e been the wreck o' me;
O, weary fa' the women folk,

For they winna let a body be!

M'LEAN'S WELCOME.*
COME o'er the stream, Charlie,
Dear Charlie, brave Charlie;
Come o'er the stream, Charlie,
And dine with M'Lean;
And though you be weary,
We'll make your heart cheery,
And welcome our Charlie,

And his loyal train.
We'll bring down the track deer,
We'll bring down the black steer,
The lamb from the bracken,

And doe from the glen,

The salt sea we'll harry,
And bring to our Charlie
The cream from the bothy
And curd from the penn.

I versified this song at Meggernie Castle, in GlenLyon, from a scrap of prose said to be the translation, verbatim, of a Gaelic song, and to a Gaelic air, sung by one of the sweetest singers and most accomplished and angelic beings of the human race. But, alas! earthly happiness is not always the lot of those who, in our erring estimation, most deserve it. She is now no more, and many a strain have I poured to her memory. The air is arranged by Smith.-See the "Scottish Minstrel." -Hogg.

I SING of a land that was famous of yore, The land of green Appin, the ward of the flood,

Where every grey cairn that broods o'er the shore,

Marks grave of the royal, the valiant, or good.

The land where the strains of grey Ossian were framed,

The land of fair Selma, the reign of Fingal, And late of a race, that with tears must be named

The noble Clan-Stuart, the bravest of all.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of
Appin!

The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of
Appin-

Their glory is o'er,

For the clan is no more,

And the Sassenach sings on the hills of green Appin.

In spite of the Campbells, their might and

In the year of the Graham, while in oceans of! blood,

The fields of the Campbells were gallantly flowing,

It was then that the Stuarts the foremost still stood,

And paid back a share of the debt they were owing.

O, proud Inverlochy! O, day of renown! Since first the sun rose o'er the peaks of Cruachin,

Was ne'er such a host by valour o'erthrown, Was ne'er such a day for the Stuarts of Appin. Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of Appin, etc.

And ne'er for the crown of the Stuarts was fought

One battle on vale, or on mountain deertrodden,

But dearly to Appin the glory was bought,

And, dearest of all, on the field of Culloden! Lament, O, Glen-Creran, Glen-Duror, Ardshiel, High offspring of heroes who conquer'd were

never,

For the deeds of your fathers no bard shall reveal, And the bold Clan of Stuart must perish for ever!

Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of
Appin, etc.

Clan-Chattan is broken, the Seaforth bends low, The sun of Clan-Ranald is sinking in labour; Glencoe, and Clan Donnachie, where are they now?

And where is bold Keppoch, the lord of Lochaber?

All gone with the house they supported!— laid low,

While dogs of the south their bold life-blood were lapping,

Trod down by a proud and merciless foe-
The brave are all gone with the Stuarts of
Appin!

Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of
Appin, etc.

They are gone! they are gone! the redoubted, the brave,

The sea-breezes lone o'er their relics are sighing;

Dark weeds of oblivion shroud many a grave, Where the unconquer'd foes of the Campbells are lying.

But, long as the grey hairs wave over this brow,
And earthly emotions my spirit are wrapping,
My old heart with tides of regret shall o'erflow,
And bleed for the fall of the Stuarts of Appin.
Oh-hon, an Righ! and the Stuarts of
Appin!

The gallant, devoted, old Stuarts of
Appin!

Their glory is o'er,

For their star is no more, And the green grass waves over the heroes of Appin!

CHARLIE IS MY DARLING.*

'Twas on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie cam' to our toon,
The young Chevalier.

An' Charlie is my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie is my darling,
The young Chevalier.

As Charlie he came up the gate,
His face shone like the day;
I grat to see the lad come back
That had been lang away.
An' Charlie is my darling, etc.

Then ilka bonny lassie sang,

As to the door she ran,
Our King shall ha'e his ain again,
An' Charlie is the man:
For Charlie is my darling, etc.

Out ow'r yon moory mountain,
An' down the craggy glen,
Of naething else our lasses sing,
But Charlie an' his men.

An' Charlie he's my darling, etc.

Our Highland hearts are true an' leal, An' glow without a stain;

Our Highland swords are metal keen,
An' Charlie he's our ain.

An' Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling;
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

LOVE IS LIKE A DIZZINESS.
AIR-"Paddy's Wedding."

I LATELY lived in quiet ease,
An' never wish'd to marry, O!
But when I saw my Peggy's face,
I felt a sad quandary, O!
Though wild as ony Athol deer,
She has trepann'd me fairly, O!
Her cherry cheeks an' e'en sae clear
Torment me late an' early, O!

O, love, love, love!

Love is like a dizziness,
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his business!

To tell my feats this single week,
Would mak' a daft-like diary, 01
I drave my cart outow'r a dike,
My horses in a miry, O!

I wear my stockings white an' blue,
My love's sae fierce an' fiery, O!

I drill the land that I should plough,
An' plough the drills entirely, O!
O, love, love, love! etc.

Altered at the request of a lady who sang it sweetly, and published in the "Jacobite Relics."-Hogg.

Ae morning, by the dawn o' day,
I rose to theek the stable, O!
I keust my coat an' plied away
As fast as I was able, O!
I wrought that morning out an' out,
As I'd been redding fire, O!
When I had done an' look'd about,
Gude faith, it was the byre, O!
O, love, love, love! etc.

Her wily glance I'll ne'er forget,

The dear, the lovely blinkin' o't

Has pierced me through an' through the heart, An' plagues me wi' the prinklin' o't.

I tried to sing, I tried to pray,

I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't,
I tried wi' sport to drive't away,
But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
O, love, love, love! etc.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove,
Or how severe my pliskie, O!
I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love
Than e'er I was wi' whisky, O!
For love has raked me fore an' aft,
I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,
An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O!
O, love, love, love!

Love is like a dizziness,
It winna let a puir body
Gang about his business!

'Tis sweet to hear the music float

Along the gloaming lee;

"Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note Come pealing frae the tree;

To see the lambkins lightsome race-
The speckled kid in wanton chase-
The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in her flowing den;
But sweeter far the bonny face
That smiles in yonder glen!

O, had it no' been for the blush
O' maiden's virgin flame,
Dear beauty never had been known,
An' never had a name;

But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame
Was modell'd by an angel's frame,
The power o' beauty reigns supreme
O'er a' the sons o' men;

But deadliest far the sacred flame
Burns in a lonely glen!

There's beauty in the violet's vest-
There's hinney in the haw-
There's dew within the rose's breast,
The sweetest o' them a'.

The sun will rise an' set again,
An' lace wi' burning gowd the main-
The rainbow bend outow'r the plain,
Sae lovely to the ken;
But lovelier far the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!

0, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.*

O, WEEL befa' the maiden gay,
In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonny May
That wons in yonder glen;

Wha lo'es the modest truth sae weel,
Wha's aye kind, an' aye sae leal,
An' pure as blooming asphodel
Amang sae mony men.

O, weel befa' the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!

"

This song was written at Elleray, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a 'Queen's Wake" every wet day-a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine fox-hound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, "Gude faith, it's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.-Hogg.

THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND.
AIR-"The Blue Bells of Scotland."
WHAT are the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel-
The lovely flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel?

The thistle's purple bonnet,
And bonny heather-bell,
O, they're the flowers of Scotland,
All others that excel!

Though England eyes her roses
With pride she'll ne'er forego,
The rose has oft been trodden
By foot of haughty foe;
But the thistle in her bonnet blue
Still nods outow'r the fell,
And dares the proudest foeman
To tread the heather-bell.

For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,
Alack and well a-day!
For ilka hand is free to pu'

An' steal the gem away.
But the thistle in her bonnet blue
Still bobs aboon them a';
At her the bravest darena blink,
Or gi'e his mou' a thraw.

Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland,
The emblems o' the free,
Their guardians for a thousand years,
Their guardians still we'll be.

A foe had better brave the deil

Within his reeky cell,

Than our thistle's purple bonnet, Or bonny heather-bell.

LASS, AN' YE L'OE ME, TELL ME NOW.*

"AFORE the muircock begin to craw,
Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now,
The bonniest thing that ever ye saw,
For I canna come every night to woo."
"The gowden broom is bonny to see,

An' sae is the milk-white flower o' the haw, The daisy's wee freenge is sweet on the lea,

But the bud of the rose is the bonniest of a'."

"Now, wae light on a' your flow'ry chat,
Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now;
It's no the thing that I would be at,

An' I canna come every night to woo!" "The lamb is bonny upon the brae,

The leveret friskin' o'er the knowe, The bird is bonny upon the tree

But which is the dearest of a' to you?"

"The thing that I lo'e best of a',

Lass, an' ye lo'e me, tell me now; The dearest thing that ever I saw,

Though I canna come every night to woo,
Is the kindly smile that beams on me,
Whenever a gentle hand I press,
And the wily blink frae the dark-blue e'e
Of a dear, dear lassie that they ca' Bess."

"Aha! young man, but I cou'dna see,
What I lo'e best I'll tell you now,
The compliment that ye sought frae me,
Though ye canna come every night to woo;
Yet I would rather hae frae you

A kindly look, an' a word witha'
Than a' the flowers o' the forest pu',
Than a' the lads that ever I saw.'

"Then, dear, dear Bessie, you shall be mine, Sin' a' the truth ye ha'e tauld me now, Our hearts an' fortunes we'll entwine,

An' I'll aye come every night to woo;
For O, I canna descrive to thee

The feeling o' love's and nature's law,
How dear this world appears to me
Wi' Bessie, my ain for good an' for a'!"

PULL AWAY, JOLLY BOYS!
HERE we go upon the tide,
Pull away, jolly boys!
With heaven for our guide,
Pull away!

Here's a weather-beaten tar,
Britain's glory still his star,
He has borne her thunders far,
Pull away, jolly boys!
To your gallant men-of-war,
Pull away!

*This song was suggested to the Shepherd by the words adapted to the formerly popular air, "Lass, gin ye lo'e me"-begirning, "I hae laid a herring in saut."

We've with Nelson plough'd the main,
Pull away, jolly boys!
Now his signal flies again,
Pull away!

Brave hearts, then let us go
To drub the haughty foe,
Who once again shall know,
Pull away, gallant boys!
That our backs we never show,
Pull away!

We have fought and we have sped,
Pull away, gallant boys!
Where the rolling wave was red,
Pull away!

We've stood many a mighty shock,
Like the thunder-stricken oak,
We've been bent but never broke,

Pull away, gallant boys!
We ne'er brook'd a foreign yoke,
Pull away!

Here we go upon the deep,

Pull away, gallant boys!
O'er the ocean let us sweep,
Pull away!
Round the earth our glory rings,
At the thought my bosom springs,
That whene'er our pennant swings,
Pull away, gallant boys!
Of the ocean we're the kings,
Pull away!

In garden or bower,

Like auld Joe Nicholson's bonny Nanny!

Ae day she came out, wi' a rosy blush,
To milk her twa kye, sae conthy and canny;
I cower'd me down at the back o' the bush,
To watch the air o' my bonny Nanny!
O, my Nanny! etc.

The looks that stray'd o'er nature away
Frae bonny blue een sae mild an' mellow,
Saw naething sae sweet in nature's array,
Though clad in the morning's gowden yellow,
O, my Nanny! etc.

My heart lay beating the flowery green,
In quaking, quivering agitation;
An' the tears cam' tricklin' down frae my een,
Wi' perfect love an' wi' admiration.
O, my Nanny! etc.

There's mony a joy in this warld below,

An' sweet the hopes that to sing were un canny;