THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

MRS. DUGALD STEWART, wife of the philosopher. From "Johnson's Museum," 1792.

THE tears I shed must ever fall,—

I mourn not for an absent swain;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.

I weep not for the silent dead,

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er ; And those they loved their steps shall tread, And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his death is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb;
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears

Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;

The flattering veil is rent aside,

The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew

The hours once tinged in transport's dye;

The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the past to agony.

E'en time itself despairs to cure

Those pangs to every feeling due :
Ungenerous youth, thy boast how poor,
To win a heart and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,

Just what would make suspicion start;
No pause the dire extremes between,-

He made me blest-and broke my heart.*
From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn;
Neglected and neglecting all,
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,
The tears I shed must ever fall.

JOHN EWEN, merchant, Aberdeen, born 1741, died 1821.-C. R.

Он, weel may the boatie row,

And better may she speed;
And liesome may the boatie row
That wins the bairns' bread.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows indeed;

And weel may the boatie row

That wins the bairns' bread.

I coost my line in Largo Bay,
And fishes I caught nine;
'Twas three to boil, and three to fry,
And three to bait the line.

The first four lines of the last stanza are by Burns.-C. R.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed; And happy be the lot o' a' Wha wishes her to speed.

Oh, weel may the boatie row,
That fills a heavy creel,
And cleeds us a' frae tap to tae,

And buys our parritch meal.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows indeed;

And happy be the lot o' a'

That wish the boatie speed.

When Jamie vow'd he wad be mine,
And wan frae me my heart,
Oh, muckle lighter grew my creel—
He swore we'd never part.
The boatie rows, the boatie rows,
The boatie rows fu' weel;

And muckle lighter is the load
When love bears up the creel.

My kurtch I put upo' my head,
And dress'd mysel' fu' braw;

I trow my heart was dowf and wae,
When Jamie gaed awa'.

But weel may the boatie row,

And lucky be her part,

And lightsome be the lassie's care
That yields an honest heart.

When Sawnie, Jock, and Janetie,
Are up and gotten lear,
They'll help to gar the boatie row,
And lighten a' our care.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel;

And lightsome be her heart that bears

The murlain and the creel!

And when wi' age we're worn down,
And hirpling round the door,
They'll row to keep us dry and warm,
As we did them before.

Then weel may the boatie row

That wins the bairns' bread,

And happy be the lot o' a'

That with the boatie speed!

The author of this song, Mr. John Ewen, ironmonger in Aberdeen, died on the 21st October, 1821, in his eightieth year. He bequeathed his fortune of £16,000 to found and endow an hospital for children at Montrose, of which place he was a native. In this settlement he entirely overlooked his daughter, who married, as he thought imprudently. An action was raised for the reduction of the will; it was carried in the House of Lords.-C. R.

LIZZY LINDSAY.

From "Johnson's Museum," 1787. Air-"The Ewe-Bughts."
"WILL ye gang to the Highlands, Lizzy Lindsay?
Will ye gang to the Highlands wi' me?
Will ye gang to the Highlands, Lizzy Lindsay,
My bride and my darling to be ?"

"To gang to the Highlands wi' you, sir,
I dinna ken how that may be ;

For I ken nae the land that ye live in,
Nor ken I the lad I'm gaun wi'."

"O Lizzy lass, ye maun ken little,
If sae that ye dinna ken me;

For my name is Lord Roland MacDonald,
A chieftain o' high degree."

She has kilted her coats o' green satin,

She has kilted them up to the knee,
And she's aff wi' Lord Roland MacDonald,

His bride and his darling to be.

There is another and more modern version of this song by Mr. Robert Gilfillan, which appears in some collections of Scottish songs.

AULD ROBIN GRAY.*

LADY ANNE LINDSAY.

YOUNG Jamie lo'ed me weel, and he sought me for his bride,
But saving a crown he had naething else beside;
To mak that crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea,
And the crown and the pound were baith for me.

He hadna been gane a week but only twa,

When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa', My father brak his arm, and my Jamie at the sea,

And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courting to me.

My father cou❜dna work, and my mither cou❜dna spin;
I toil'd baith day and night, but their bread I cou❜dna win;
Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his ee
Said, Jeanie, for their sakes, oh, will you marry me?

My heart it said nay; I look'd for Jamie back;

But the wind it blew high, and the ship it proved a wreck;
The ship it proved a wreck,-why didna Jeanie die ?
And why do I live to say, Oh, waes me!

My father urged me sair; my mither didna speak,
But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break;
So they gied him my hand, though my heart was at the sea,
And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,

When sitting sae mournfully ae day at the door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he,
Until he said, Jeanie, I'm come to marry thee.

"This pathetic ballad, of which the authorship was long a mystery, was written by Lady Anne Lindsay, daughter of the Earl of Balcarras, and afterwards Lady Barnard. It appears to have been composed at the commencement of the year 1772, when the author was yet a young girl. It was published anonymously, and acquired great popularity. No one, however, came forward to lay claim to the laurels lavished upon it; and a literary controversy sprung up to decide the authorship. Many conjectured that it was as old as the days of David Rizzio, if not composed by that unfortunate minstrel himself; while others considered it of a much later date. The real author was, however, suspected; and ultimately, when she was an old woman, Sir Walter Scott received a letter from Lady Anne herself, openly avowing that she had written it. She stated that she had been long suspected by her more intimate friends, and often questioned with respect to the mysterious ballad, but that she had always managed to keep her secret to herself without a direct and absolute denial. She was induced to write the song by a desire to see an old plaintive Scottish air ("The bridegroom grat when the sun gaed down"), which was a favourite with her, fitted with