As doun the burn they took their way

An' through the flowery dale,
His cheek to hers he aft did lay,

An' love was aye the tale.

With, "Mary, when shall we return,

Sic pleasures to renew ?"

Quoth Mary, "Love, I like the burn,

An' aye will follow you."

This song first appeared in Ramsay's "Tea-Table Miscellany." The last stanza was added by Burns, who was informed by the tradition of his neighbourhood, that the air was the composition of one David Maigh, keeper of the bloodhounds to the Laird of Riddell in Roxburghshire.

ONE DAY I HEARD MARY SAY.

ROBERT CRAWFORD. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

ONE day I heard Mary say, How shall I leave thee?
Stay, dearest Adonis, stay; why wilt thou grieve me?
Alas! my fond heart would break, if thou should leave me ;
I'll live and die for thy sake, yet never leave thee!

Say, lovely Adonis, say, has Mary deceived thee?

Did e'er her young heart betray, love, that has grieved thee?
My constant mind ne'er shall stray; thou may believe me:
I'll love thee, lad, night and day, and never leave thee!

Adonis, my charming youth, what can relieve thee?
Can Mary thy anguish soothe ? this breast shall receive thee.
My passion can ne'er decay, never deceive thee;
Delight shall drive pain away, pleasure revive thee.

But leave thee, leave thee, lad, how shall I leave thee?
Oh! that thought makes me sad: I'll never leave thee!
Where would my Adonis fly? Why does he grieve me?
Alas! my poor heart will die, if I should leave thee.

"One day I heard Mary say' is a fine song," says Burns to Thomson; "but for consistency's sake, alter the name of Adonis. Were there ever such banns published as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary?"

MY DEARIE, IF THOU DEE.

ROBERT CRAWFORD. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724,

Love never more shall give me pain,

My fancy's fixed on thee;

Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,

My Peggie, if thou dee.

Thy beauties did such pleasure give,

Thy love's so true to me;
Without thee I shall never live,
My dearie, if thou dee.

If fate shall tear thee from my breast,
How shall I lonely stray!

In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,
In sighs the silent day.

I ne'er can so much virtue find,
Nor such perfection see:

Then I'll renounce all womankind,
My Peggie, after thee.

With Cupid's raving rage;

But thine, which can such sweets impart,

Must all the world engage.

"Twas this that, like the morning sun,

Gave joy and life to me;

And when its destined day is done,

With Peggy let me dee.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasures share;
Ye who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair;

Restore my Peggie's wonted charms,

Those charms so dear to me;

Oh, never rob them from those arms

I'm lost if Peggy dee.

The beautiful air to which this song is sung has been traced back in мs. to the year 1692; but is probably much older.

JOHN HAY'S BONNIE LASSIE.

From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

By smooth-winding Tay a swain was reclining,
Aft cried he, Oh, hey! maun I still live pining
Mysel' thus away, and daurna discover

To my bonny Hay that I am her lover!

Nae mair it will hide, the flame waxes stranger;
If she's not my bride, my days are nae langer;
Then I'll take a heart, and try at a venture,—
Maybe, ere we part, my vows may content her.

She's fresh as the spring, and sweet as Aurora,
When birds mount and sing, bidding day a good morrow;
The sward of the mead enamell'd with daisies
Looks wither'd and dead when twined of her graces.

But if she appears where verdure invites her,

The fountains run clear, and the flowers smell the sweeter;
"Tis heaven to be by when her wit is a-flowing;
Her smiles and bright eyes set my spirits a-glowing.

The mair that I gaze, the deeper I'm wounded,
Struck dumb with amaze, my mind is confounded;
I'm all in a fire, dear maid, to caress ye;

For a' my desire is John Hay's bonnie lassie.

Mr. Chambers states that there is a tradition in Roxburghshire that this song was written by a carpenter or joiner in honour of a daughter of John Hay, first Marquis of Tweeddale.

JOHN HAY'S BONNIE MARY.

From Peter Buchan's manuscript collection of ancient and traditional
Scottish songs.

As I gaed down an' farther down,

An' down into a cellar,

There I saw the bonniest lass

Was writing a letter.

She was writing an' inditing,

And losing her colour,
But ilka kiss of her mou'

Cost me a dollar.

Cost

me a dollar,

An' a glass o' canary;
An, oh, for a kiss

Of John Hay's bonnie Mary!
John Hay, hoch, hey,

John Hay's bonnie Mary;
What wad I gie

For John Hay's bonnie Mary!

Her father was handsome,
Her mother was tall;

But as for their daughter,

She's the flower o' them all.
She's handsome and sprightly,
Genteel but not saucy;
I wad gang the warld

Wi' John Hay's bonnie lassic.

THY FATAL SHAFTS.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT, the novelist, born 1721, died 1774.

THY fatal shafts unerring move,
I bow before thine altar, Love!
I feel thy soft resistless flame

Glide swift through all my vital frame.

For while I gaze my bosom glows,
My blood in tides impetuous flows;
Hope, fear, and joy alternate roll,
And floods of transport 'whelm my soul.

My falt'ring tongue attempts in vain
In soothing murmurs to complain;
My tongue some secret magic ties,
My murmurs sink in broken sighs.

Condemn'd to nurse eternal care,
And ever drop the silent tear;
Unheard I mourn, unknown I sigh,
Unfriended live, unpitied die!

YE rivers so limpid and clear,

Who reflect, as in cadence you flow,

All the beauties that vary the year,

All the flow'rs on your margins that grow;

How blest on your banks could I dwell,

Were Margret the pleasure to share,

And teach your sweet echoes to tell

With what fondness I doat on the fair!

Ye harvests, that wave in the breeze
As far as the view can extend;
Ye mountains, umbrageous with trees,
Whose tops so majestic ascend;
Your landscape what joy to survey,
Were Margret with me to admire;
Then the harvest would glitter how gay,
How majestic the mountains aspire!