Should I be call'd where cannons roar,
Where mortal steel may wound me,
Or cast upon some foreign shore,
Where dangers may surround me;
Yet hopes again to see my love,
To feast on glowing kisses,
Shall make my cares at distance move,
In prospect of such blisses.

In all my soul there's not one place
To let a rival enter;

Since she excels in ev'ry grace,

In her my love shall centre.
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow,
Their waves the Alps shall cover,
On Greenland ice shall roses grow,
Before I cease to love her.

The neist time I gang ower the muir,
She shall a lover find me;

And that my faith is firm and pure,
Though I left her behind me;
Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain
My heart to her fair bosom;

There, while my being does remain,

My love more fresh shall blossom.

"The first lines of this song, and several others in it, are beautiful; but in my opinion-pardon me, revered shade of Ramsay!-the song is unworthy of the divine air."- BURNS.

PEGGIE AND PATIE.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

PEGGY.

WHEN first my dear laddie gae'd to the green hill,
And I at ewe-milking first sey'd my young skill,
To bear the milk-bowie nae pain was to me,
When I at the bughting forgather'd with thee.

PATIE.

When corn-riggs waved yellow, and blue heather-beils
Bloom'd brightly on moorland and sweet rising fells;
Nae burns, briar, or bracken, gave trouble to me,
If I found but the berries right ripen'd for thee.

PEGGY.

When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane,
And cam aff the victor, my heart was aye fain;
Thy ilka sport manly gave pleasure to me,
For nane can put, wrestle, or run swift as thee.

PATIE.

Our Jenny sings saftly the "Cowden-Broom-Knowes,"
And Rosie lilts sweetly the "Milking the Ewes;"
There's few "Jenny Nettles" like Nancy can sing;

With "Through the wood, laddie," Bess gars our lugs ring

But when my dear Peggy sings, with better skill,

The "Boatman," "Tweedsdale," or the "Lass o' the Mill," 'Tis many times sweeter and pleasing to me;

For though they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.”

PEGGY.

How easy can lasses trow what they desire,
With praises sae kindly increasing love's fire!
Give me still this pleasure, my study shall be
To make myself better and sweeter for thee.

THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

IN April, when primroses paint the sweet plain,
And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain,
The yellow-hair'd laddie would oftentimes go

To woods and deep glens where the hawthorn-trees grow.

There under the shade of an old sacred thorn

With freedom he sung his loves ev'ning and morn:

He sung with so soft and enchanting a sound,

That silvans and fairies, unseen, danced around.

The shepherd thus sung: "Though young Maddie be fair,
Her beauty is dash'd by a scornfu' proud air;
But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing,-
Her breath's like the breezes perfumed i' the spring.

That Maddie, in all the gay bloom of her youth,
Like the moon, was inconstant, and never spoke truth;
But Susie was faithful, good-humoured and free,
And fair as the goddess that sprung from the sea.

That mamma's fine daughter, with all her great dower,
Was awkwardly airy, and frequently sour."
Then sighing, he wish'd, would but parents agree,

The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be.

Allan Ramsay founded this song upon a much older composition-of itself not devoid of merit, and free from the concetti of its more modern namesake. It was inserted in his "Tea-Table Miscellany," and is here appended.

The yellow-hair'd laddie sat down on yon brae,

Crying, "Milk the ewes, lassie; let nane o' them gae.'
And aye as she milkit she merrily sang,

The yellow-hair'd laddie shall be my gudeman.

The weather is cauld and my cleadin' is thin,

The yowes are new-clipt and they winna bught in;

They winna bught in, although I should dee,

O yellow-hair'd laddie, be kind unto me!

The gudewife cries butt the house, "Jennie, come ben;
The cheese is to mak and the butter's to kirn."
Though butter and cheese and a' should gang sour,
I'll crack and I'll kiss with my love a half-hour.
It's ae lang half-hour, and we'll e'en mak it three,
For the yellow hair'd laddie my gudeman shall be.

DUNT, DUNT, DUNT, PITTIE, PATTIE.

Air-"The yellow-hair'd laddie." From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

ON Whitsunday morning

I went to the fair;
My yellow-hair'd laddie
Was selling his ware;
He gied a blythe blink

O' his bonny black ee,

And a dear blink and a fair blink

It was unto me.

MARY SCOTT, THE FLOWER OF YARROW.

ALLAN RAMSAY. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

HAPPY'S the love which meets return,
When in soft flames souls equal burn ;
But words are wanting to discover
The torments of a hopeless lover.
Ye registers of heaven, relate,
If looking o'er the rolls of fate,

Did you there see me mark'd to marrow
Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow?

Ah, no! her form's too heavenly fair,
Her love the gods above must share;
While mortals with despair explore her,
And at a distance due adore her.
O lovely maid! my doubts beguile,
Revive and bless me with a smile;
Alas! if not you'll soon debar a
Sighing swain the banks of Yarrow.

Be hush'd ye fears; I'll not despair;
My Mary's tender as she's fair;
Then I'll go tell her all my anguish;
She is too good to let me languish :
With success crowned, I'll not envy
The folks who dwell above the sky;

When Mary Scott becomes my marrow,
We'll make a paradise on Yarrow.

The heroine of this song is supposed to have been Mary, daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope, in Selkirkshire. She was married to Scott of Harden, the notorious border-reiver, or freebooter. A different and possibly an earlier version of this song has been discovered by Mr. Peter Buchan. We copy it from a manuscript volume of the Songs of the North of Scotland collected by that gentleman.

Oh, Mary's red, and Mary's white,

And Mary she's the king's delight;

The king's delight and the prince's marrow,

Mary Scott, the flower of Yarrow.

When I look east, my heart grows sair;

But when I look west, it's mair and mair;
And when I look to the banks of Yarrow,
There I mind my winsome marrow.

Now she's gone to Edinburgh town,

To buy braw ribbons to tie her gown;

She's bought them broad, and laid them narrow,—

Mary Scott is the flower of Yarrow.

BONNIE CHIRSTY.

ALLAN RAMSAY. From the "Tea-Table Miscellany."

"How sweetly smells the simmer green,
Sweet taste the peach and cherry;
Painting and order please our een,
And claret makes us merry!
But finest colours, fruits and flowers,

And wine, though I be thirsty,
Lose a' their charms and weaker powers,
Compar'd wi' those of Chirsty.

When wand'ring o'er the flow'ry park,
No natural beauty wanting;
How lightsome is't to hear the lark,

And birds in concert chanting!