ROBERT BURNS.]

The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his

name,

While Jenny hafflins is afraid to speak; Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him benA strappan youth, he taks the mother's

eye;

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye;

The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave;

The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy What makes the youth sae bashfu' and sae grave

Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.

O happy love! where love like this is found! O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!

I've paced much this weary mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declareIf Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure

spare,

One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents
the evening gale.

Is there, in human form that bears a heart,
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth,
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling smooth!

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child

Then paints the min'? mid, and their disfood;

The soup their only hawkie does afford,

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her

cud;

The dame brings forth, in complimental mood, To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell,

An' aft he's press'd, and aft he ca's it good;
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was
i' the bell.

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;

[SEVENTH PERIOD.

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,

The big Ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,

His lyart haffets wearin' thin and bare; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide

He wales a portion with judicious care; And "Let us worship God!" he says with solemn air.

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim;

Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures rise,

Or plaintive Martyr's, worthy o' the name; Or noble Elgin beets the heavenward flameThe sweetest far o' Scotia's holy lays; Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise

Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.

The priest-like father reads the sacred page: How Abraham was the friend of God on high;

Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage

With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging
ire;

Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred
lyre.

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme :

How guiltless blood for guilty man was. shed;

How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; How His first followers and servants sped— The precepts sage they wrote to many a

land;

How he, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced That thus Heaven's command.

The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart,

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul,

And in His book of life the inmates poor enrol.

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,

And proffer up to Heaven the warm request

That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, For them and for their little ones provideBut chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad.

Princes and lord s are but the breath of kings"An honest man's the noblest work of

In came Watty's scoldin wife.

'Nasty, gude-for-naething being! O ye snuffy drucken sow! Bringin wife and weans to ruin,

Drinkin here wi' sic a crew!

"Rise! ye drucken beast o' Bethel !

Drink's your night and day's desire;
Rise, this precious hour! or faith I'll
Fling your whisky i' the fire!"
Watty heard her tongue unhallow'd,
Paid his groat wi' little din,
Left the house, while Maggy fallow'd,
Flyting a' the road behin'.

Folk frae every door came lampin,

Maggy curst them ane and a',
Clapp'd wi' her hands, and stampin,
Lost her bauchels i' the snaw.
Hame, at length, she turn'd the gavel,
Wi' a face as white's a clout,
Ragin like a very devil,

Kickin stools and chairs about.

"Ye'll sit wi' your limmers round ye-
Hang you, sir, I'll be your death!
Little hauds my hands, confound you,
But I cleave you to the teeth!"
Watty, wha, 'midst this oration,

Eyed her whiles, but durst na speak,
Sat, like patient Resignation,

Trembling by the ingle-cheek.

Sad his wee drap brose he sippet
(Maggy's tongue gaed like a bell),
Quietly to his bed he slippet,
Sighin aften to himsel-

"Nane are free frae some vexation,
Ilk ane has his ills to dree;

But through a' the hale creation
Is nae mortal vex'd like me."

A. Wilson.-Born 1766, Died 1813.

1594.-A PEDLAR'S STORY.

I wha stand here, in this bare scowry coat, Was ance a packman, worth mony a groat; I've carried packs as big's your meikle table; I've scarted pats, and sleepit in a stable: Sax pounds I wadna for my pack ance taen, And I could bauldly brag 'twas a' mine ain.

1596. THE HUSBAND'S RETURN. Sometimes briskly, sometimes flaggin', Sometimes helpit, Will gat forth; On a cart, or in a wagon,

Hirpling aye towards the north. Tired ae e'ening, stepping hooly, Pondering on his thraward fate, In the bonny month o' July,

Willie, heedless, tint his gate.

Saft the southland breeze was blawing,
Sweetly sughed the green aik wood;
Loud the din o' streams fast fa'ing,

Strack the ear wi' thundering thud :
Ewes and lambs on braes ran bleating;
Linties chirp'd on ilka tree;
Frae the west the sun, near setting,
Flamed on Roslin's towers sae hie.
Roslin's towers and braes sae bonny!
Craigs and water, woods and glen i
Roslin's banks unpeer'd by ony,

Save the Muses' Hawthornden!

Ilka sound and charm delighting,

Will (though hardly fit to gang)
Wander'd on through scenes inviting,
Listening to the mavis' sang.

Faint at length, the day fast closing,
On a fragrant strawberry steep,
Esk's sweet dream to rest composing,
Wearied nature drapt asleep.

Silent step he on, poor fallow !

Listening to his guide before,
O'er green knowe and flowery hallow,
Till they reach'd the cot-house door.
Laigh it was, yet sweet and humble;
Deck'd wi' honeysuckle round;
Clear below Esk's waters rumble,
Deep glens murmuring back the sound.
Melville's towers sae white and stately,
Dim by gloaming glint to view;
Through Lasswade's dark woods keek sweetly
Skies sae red and lift sae blue.

Entering now in transport mingle
Mother fond and happy wean,
Smiling round a canty ingle
Bleezing on a clean hearthstane.

"Soldier, welcome! come be cheerie

Here ye'se rest and tak' your bedFaint, waes me! ye seem, and weary, Pale's your cheek sae lately red !" "Changed I am," sigh'd Willie till her; "Changed, nae doubt, as changed can be; Yet, alas! does Jeanie Miller

Nought o' Willie Gairlace see?"

Hae ye mark'd the dew o' morning
Glittering in the sunny ray,
Quickly fa', when, without warning,
Rough blasts came and shook the spray?
Hae ye seen the bird fast fleeing,

Drap when pierced by death mair fleet ?
Then see Jean wi' colour deeing,
Senseless drap at Willie's feet.

After three lang years' affliction
(A' their waes now hush'd to rest),
Jean ance mair, in fond affection,
Clasps her Willie to her breast.

Hector Macneill.-Born 1746, Died 1818.

1597.-MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, Saw ye my true love down on yon leaCross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,

Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree;

Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milkwhite,

Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e; Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses. Where could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,

Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea; But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,

Down by the burnie where flowers the hawtree:

Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was

milk-white,

Dark was the blue of her soft rolling c'e; Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than

roses

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,

It was nae my true love ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature, She never loved ony till ance she loed me. Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-Cary, Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee : Fair as your face is, wert fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.

It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary, It was then your true love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek

'Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth, smiling— Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,

Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.

Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?

O Jamie, forgie me, your heart's constant to me, I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee. Hector Macneill.-Born 1746, Died 1818.

1598.-THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither, Where the blac-berries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather; Where the deer and the roe,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain, And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain; I will range through the wilds,

And the deep glens sae drearie. And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling, So merrily we'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the dear shieling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer's in prime
Wi' the flowers richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme

A' the moorlands perfuming.

To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together,

Where glad innocence reigns

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither. Robert Tannahill.-Born 1774, Died 1810.

1599.-THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER. Keen blaws the win' o'er the braes o' Gleniffer, The auld castle turrets are cover'd with snaw; How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover

Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw !

The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae

bonnie,

The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken

tree;

But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,

And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie,

Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw;

Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie,

And naething is seen but the wide-spreading

snaw.

The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie ;

They shake the cauld drift frae their wings

as they flee;

And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie;

'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,

And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae,

While down the deep glen bawls the snawflooded fountain,

That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me. It's no its loud roar on the wintry wind swellin',

It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e;

For oh! gin I saw but my bonnie Scot's callan, The dark days o' winter were summer to me. Robert Tannahill.-Born 1774, Died 1810.

And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom, Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dumblane.

She's modest as ony, and blithe as she's bonnie;

For guileless simplicity marks her its ain: And far be the villain, divested of feeling, Wha'd blight in its bloom the sweet flower o' Dumblane.

Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening;

Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen:

Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning, Is charming young Jessie, the flower o Dumblane.