In pensive regret whilst I rove,

The fragrance of flow'rs to inhale ; Or catch, as it swells from the grove,

The music that floats on the gale: Alas, the delusion how vain !

Nor odours nor harmony please A heart agonising with pain,

Which tries every posture for ease.

If anxious to flatter my woes,

Or the languor of absence to cheer, Her breath I would catch in the rose,

Or her voice in the nightingale hear; To cheat my despair of its prey,

What object her charms can assume! How harsh is the nightingale's lay!

How insipid the rose's perfume!

Ye zephyrs that visit my fair,

Ye sunbeams around her that play, Does her sympathy dwell on my care ?

Does she number the hours of my stay ? First perish ambition and wealth,

First perish all else that is dear, Ere one sigh should escape her by stealth, Ere my

absence should cost her one tear.

When, when shall her beauties once more

This desolate bosom surprise ?
Ye fates, the blest moments restore

When I bask'd in the beams of her eyes; When with sweet emulation of heart,

Our kindness we struggled to show; But the more that we strove to impart,

We felt it more ardently glow.



BENEATH a green shade a lovely young swain
Ae evening reclined to discover his pain;
So sad yet so sweetly he warbled his woe,
The winds ceased to breathe, and the fountain to flow;
Rude winds wi' compassion could hear him complain,
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.

How happy, he cried, my moments once flew,
Ere Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view!

then wi' pleasure the dawn could survey,
Nor smiled the fair morning mair cheerful than they.
Now scenes of distress please only my sight;
I'm tortured in pleasure, and languish in light.
Through changes in vain relief I pursue,
All, all but conspire my griefs to renew ;
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair-
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air ;
But love's ardent fire burns always the same,
No winter can cool it, no summer inflame.

But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires ;
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires ;
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind,
Yet nourish the madness that preys on my mind.
Ah, wretch! how can life be worthy thy care ?
10 lengthen its moments but lengthens despair.


SIR GILBERT Elliot of Minto, born 1722, died 1777, first Earl of Minto.
Printed in Yair's “Charmer," 1749, and in Herd's Collection.

Air-"My apron, dearie."
My sheep I neglected—I lost my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsouk;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;

For ambition, I said, would soon cure ne of love.

Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ?
Why left I Amynta ? why broke I my vow ?

Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide ocean secure me from lore:
Oh, fool, to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!

Oh, what, &c.

Alas ! 'tis too late at thy fate to repine ;
Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine :
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain ;
The moments neglected return not again.

Oh, what, &c.


WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour. From the “Tea-Table Miscellany," 1724.

Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful fate,

When doom'd to love and doom'd to larguish,
To bear the scornful fair one's hate,

Nor dare disclose his anguish!
Yet eager looks and dying sighs

My secret soul discover,
While rapture trembling through mine eyes

Reveals how much I love her.
The tender glance, the reddening cheek

O'erspread with rising blushes,
A thousand various ways they speak,

A thousand various wishes.

For, oh, that form so heavenly fair,

Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling;
That artless blush and modest air,

So fatally beguiling;
Thy every look and every grace,

So charm whene'er I view thee, -
Till death o'ertake me in the chase,

Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Then, when my tedious hours are past,

Be this last blessing given,
Low at thy feet to breathe my last,

And die in sight of heaven.




MRS. JOHN HUNTER, wife of the celebrated surgeon, born 1742, died 1821,

The Music by SIR H. R. BISHOP,

My mother bids me bind my hair

With bands of rosy hue,
Tie up my sleeves with ribands rare,

And lace my bodice blue.

For why, she cries, sit still and weep,

While others dance and play?
Alas! I scarce can go or creep

While Lubin is away.

'Tis sad to think the days are gone

When those we love were near :
I sit upon this mossy stone,

And sigh when none can hear.

And while I spin my flaxen thread,

And sing my simple lay,
The village seems asleep, or dead,

Now Lubin is away.


MRS. GRANT of Carron, born 1745, died 1814.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch,


how she cheated me
As I cam o'er the braes of Balloch ?

She vow'd, she swore she wad be mine,

She said she lo'ed me best o' onie;
But ah ! the faithless, fickle quean,
She's ta’en the carle, and left her Johnnie.

Roy's wife, &c.

O she was a cantie quean,

Weel could she dance the Highland wallech;
How happy I, had she been mine,
Or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch!

Roy's wife, &c.

Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear,

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie ;
To me she ever will be dear,
Though she's for ever left her Johnnie.

Roy's wife, &c.

The Inverness Courier says:--"A friend who has been examining the parish register in Cabrach, Banffshire, says he has lighted on the veritable Roy of Aldivalloch and his once fickle wife, so famous in Scottish song. On 21st February, 1727, John Roy, lawful son to Thomas Roy in Aldivalloch, was married to Isabel, daughter of Alister Stewart, sometime resident in Cabrach. They had been previously “contracted "on the 28th January. The Braes of Balloch are in the neighbourhood of Aldivalloch; and the song was written by a lady of the district. Allan Cunningham says:- Mr. Oromek, an anxious inquirer into all matters illustrative of Northern song, ascribes • Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch'to Mrs. Murray, of Bath; while George Thomson and all other editors of Scottish song impute it to Mrs. Grant, of Carron. I am not aware that the authorship has been settled.' Our old friend was not so zealous a literary antiquary as his son, Mr. Peter Cunningham. There is no doubt as to the authorship of the song. It was written by a lady named Grant, a native of Aberlour, who was married first to her cousin, Mr. Grant of Carron, near Elchies, and, on his death, to a physician- Dr. Murray, of Bath. The dates of this lady's birth and death are said to have been 1745 and 1814-consequently, she was long after the period of John Roy mentioned in the parish register. Perhaps there was some popular tradition as to the

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