Oh, the brume, the bonnie, bonnie brume!

The brume o' the Cowdenknowes!

I wish I were with my dear swain,
With his pipe and my yowes!

["This simple, delightful, and truly pastoral song, which may be set forward as the best specimen that can be given of that native poetry on which Scotland prides herself so much, appeared first in the Tea Table Miscellany, 1724; not as an anonymous and indefinitely antique composition, but with the signature S. R.; which seems to indicate the name of some author alive in Ramsay's time, but who, being probably a gentleman or lady under the restraints of society, desired to remain unknown."-CHAMBERS.

"What a thrill of pleasure did I feel when I first saw the broomcovered tops of the Cowdenknowes peeping above the grey hills of the Tweed and what touching associations were called up by the sight of Ettrick Vale, Gala Water, and the Braes of Yarrow.-WASHINGTON IRVING.]

THE BIRKS OF INVERMAY.

DAVID MALLET.

Born 1714.-Died 1765.

The smiling morn, the breathing spring,
Invite the tuneful birds to sing,

And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the universal lay.

Let us, Amanda, timely wise,

Like them improve the hour that flies,

And in soft raptures waste the day

Amang the birks of Invermay.

For soon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear;
At this, thy living bloom will fade,
As that will nip the vernal shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er,
The feather'd songsters are no more;
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the birks of Invermay.

The laverock now and lintwhite sing,
The rocks around with echoes ring;
The mavis and the blackbird gay
In tuneful strains now glad the day;
The woods now wear their summer-suits;
To mirth all nature now invites :
Let us be blythsome then and gay
Among the birks of Invermay.

Behold, the hills and vales around
With lowing herds and flocks abound;
The wanton kids and frisking lambs
Gambol and dance about their dams;
The busy bees with humming noise,
And all the reptile kind rejoice:
Let us, like them, then sing and play
About the birks of Invermay.

Hark, how the waters as they fall
Loudly my love to gladness call;
The wanton waves sport in the beams,
And fishes play throughout the streams;
The circling sun does now advance,
And all the planets round him dance:
Let us as jovial be as they
Among the birks of Invermay.

[The two first stanzas alone of this song are by Mallet; the others are the composition of a Dr. Bryce, of Kirknewton, and are very beautiful.

"Invermay," says Robert Chambers, "is a small woody glen, watered by the rivulet May, which there joins the river Earn. It is about five miles above the bridge of Earn, and nearly nine from Perth."]

AS SYLVIA IN A FOREST LAY.

DAVID MALLET.

As Sylvia in a forest lay,

To vent her woe alone;

Her swain Sylvander came that way,
And heard her dying moan:
Ah! is my love, she said, to you
So worthless and so vain?
Why is your wonted fondness now
Converted to disdain?

You vow'd the light should darkness turn,
Ere you'd forget your love;

In shades now may creation mourn,

Since you unfaithful prove.

Was it for this I credit gave

To ev'ry oath you swore?

But ah! it seems they most deceive
Who most our charms adore.

'Tis plain your drift was all deceit,
The practice of mankind :
Alas! I see it, but too late,
My love had made me blind.

For you, delighted I could die :
But oh! with grief I'm filled,
To think that credulous, constant, I
Should by yourself be kill'd.

This said-all breathless, sick and pale,
Her head upon her hand,
She found her vital spirits fail,
And senses at a stand.
Sylvander then began to melt:
But ere the word was given,
The heavy hand of death she felt,
And sigh'd her soul to heaven.

[From the Tea Table Miscellany, 1729.]

WHERE THAMES ALONG THE DAISIED MEADS.

DAVID MALLET.

Where Thames, along the daisied meads,
His wave in lucid mazes leads,

Silent, slow, serenely flowing,

Wealth on either shore bestowing,

There in safe though small retreat

Content and Love have fixed their seat;
Love that counts his duty pleasure,
Content, that hugs and knows his treasure.
From Art, from jealousy, secure,
As faith unblamed, as friendship pure,
Vain opinion nobly scorning,
Virtue aiding, life adorning;

Fair Thames along thy flowery side
May those whom truth and reason guide,
All their tender hours improving,

Live like us, beloved and loving!

[In a copy of Gascoigne's Works sold the other day at Mr. Heber's Sale, was found the following MS. note by the cynical George Steevens: "This volume of Gascoigne's Works was bought for £1. 13. at Mr. Mallet's, alias Mallock's, alias M'Gregor's Sale, March 14, 1776. He was the only Scotchman who died in my memory unlamented by an individual of his own nation."]

UNGRATEFUL NANNY.

CHARLES LORD BINNING.

Died 1732.

Did ever swain a nymph adore,
As I ungrateful Nanny do?
Was ever shepherd's heart so sore,
Or ever broken heart so true?
My cheeks are swell'd with tears, but she
Has never wet a cheek for me.

If Nanny call'd, did e'er I stay,
Or linger when she bid me run ?
She only had the word to say,

And all she wish'd was quickly done.

I always think of her, but she
Does ne'er bestow a thought on me.