In sorrow and anguish my Mary now lies,

She counts the sad moments of Time as it flies;

To the nymph, my heart's love, ye soft slumbers repair, Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her your

care.

Let me be left restless, my eyes never close,

So the sleep that I lose, gives my fair one repose,
Dear stream! if you chance by her pillow to creep,
Perhaps your soft murmurs may lull her asleep.

Oh if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed—
And the loss of my Mary the fates have decreed :--
Believe me thou fair one-Oh Mary believe,
That I sigh for thy loss-and I live but to grieve.

Soft glide gentle brook-gentle streamlet soft glide-
While I lay me to die-on your flower painted side-
But swiftly flow on-and to Mary the fair-
The love of poor Colin that's dying, O bear!

[The copy of this song is given from two or three versions contained in different collections. In many of the songs in this volume printed without any name, there is much prettiness and much elegance, but something of affectation runs through the whole of them and much inequality. From all parts, from all odd volumes, and from different manuscripts these songs found their way into our Anthologies, it is not improbable but that several of them are the compositions of the various collectors and compilers.

One would almost imagine that Burns had seen the above songwhen he wrote his beautiful lyric in honour of Mrs. General Stewart :"Flow gently sweet Afton among thy green braes."]

BELINDA.

Ah! bright Belinda, hither fly,
And such a light discover,
As may the absent sun supply,
And chear the drooping lover.

Arise, my day, with speed arise,
And all my sorrows banish:
Before the sun of thy bright eyes,
All gloomy terrors vanish.

No longer let me sigh in vain,
And curse the hoarded treasure:
Why should you love to give us pain,
When you were made for pleasure?

The petty powers of hell destroy;
To save the pride of heaven :
To you the first, if you prove coy;
If kind, the last is given.

The choice then sure's not hard to make,

Betwixt a good and evil :

Which title had you rather take,

My goddess, or, my devil?

'TIS NOT THE BRIGHTNESS OF THOSE EYES.

'Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes,
That swim with pleasure and delight;
Nor those fair heavenly arches which arise
O'er each of them to shade their light;
'Tis not that hair which plays with every wind,
And loves to wanton round thy face;
Now straying o'er thy forehead, now behind
Retiring with insidious grace.

'Tis not that lovely range of teeth, as white
As new shorn sheep, equal and fair;

Nor even that gentle smile the heart's delight,
With which no smile could e'er compare;
'Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine,
Those breasts that swell to meet my love;
That easy sloping waist, that form divine,
Nor ought below, nor ought above.

'Tis not the living colours over each,

By nature's finest pencil wrought,

To shame the fresh blown rose, and blooming peach, And mock the happiest painter's thought:

But 'tis that gentle mind, that ardent love,

So kindly answering my desire;

That grace with which you look, and speak, and

move,

That thus have set my soul on fire.

FAIR AND SOFT.

Fair, and soft, and gay, and young,
All charm! she play'd, she danc'd, she sung,
There was no way to 'scape the dart,
No care could guard the lover's heart.
Ah! why cry'd I, and dropt a tear,
(Adoring, yet despairing e'er
To have her to myself alone)

Was so much sweetness made for one?

But growing bolder, in her ear
I in soft numbers told my care:

She heard and rais'd me from her feet,
And seem'd to glow with equal heat.
Like heaven's, too mighty to express,
My joys could but be known by guess!
Ah! fool, said I, what have I done,
To wish her made for more than one?

But long I had not been in view,
Before her eyes their beams withdrew;
E'er I had reckon'd half her charms
She sunk into another's arms.
But she that once could faithless be,
Will favour him no more than me:
He too will find himself undone,
And that she was not made for one.

[From the Hive, a collection of Songs, 4 vol. 8vo. 1732.]

RAIL NO MORE.

Rail no more ye learned asses,

'Gainst the joys the bowl supplies; Sound its depth and fill your glasses, Wisdom at the bottom lies.

Fill them higher still and higher,
Shall our draughts perplex the brain;
Sipping quenches all our fire,

Bumpers light it up again.

Draw the scene for wit and pleasure— Enter jollity and joy;

We for thinking have no leisure,

Manly mirth is our employ: Since in life there's nothing certain, We'll the present hour engage; And when death shall drop the curtain, With applause we'll quit the stage.

A TOAST.

Let the waiter bring clean glasses,
With a fresh supply of wine;

For I see by all your faces,
In my wishes you will join.

It is not the charms of beauty
Which I purpose to proclaim,
We a while will leave that duty,
For a more prevailing theme.