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How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft fauldin' blossom!

And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,

Is lovely young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. She's modest as onie, 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 flow'r o' Dum

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

Thou’rt dear to the echos of Calderwood glen : Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,

Is charming young Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane. How lost were my days till I met wi' my

Jessie! The sports o' the city seem'd foolish and yain ; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca' my dear lassie, Till charm’d wi' sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dum

blane.
Though mine were the station o’loftiest grandeur,

Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o' its spl our,

If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

Gloomy winter's now awa',
Saft the westlin breezes blaw :
'Mang the birks o' Stanely-shaw

The mavis sings fu' cheerie-o.

Sweet the craw-flower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',

My young, my artless dearie-o.
Come, my lassie, let us stray,
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day

Midst joys that never wearie-o.

Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods,
Lavrocks fan the snaw-white clouds ;
Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,

Adorn the banks sae brierie-o.
Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feath'ry brekans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheerie-o.
Trees may bud, and birds may sing,
Flow'rs may bloom, and verdure spring,
Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie-o.

THRO' CRUIKSTON CASTLE'S LONELY WA'S.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

Thro' Cruikston Castle's lonely wa's

The wintry wind howls wild and dreary; Tho'mirk the cheerless c'ening fa's,

Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary.

Yes, Mary, tho’ the winds shou'd rave

Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee, The darkest stormy night I'd brave

For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep

Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure ; But I will ford the whirling deep

That roars between me and my treasure. Yes, Mary, tho' the torrent rave

With jealous spite to keep me frae thee, Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave

For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,

And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie ; But when the lonesome way is past,

l'll to this bosom clasp my dearie. Yes, Mary, tho'stern winter rave

With a' his storms to keep ine frae thee, The wildest dreary night I'd brave

For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

THE LASS OF ARRANTEENIE.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

Far lone, amang the Highland hills,

'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur, By rocky dens, and woody glens,

With weary steps I wander :

The langsome way, the darksome day,

The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,

Sweet lass of Arranteenie.
Yon mossy rose-bud down the howe,

Just op'ning fresh and bonnie, Blinks sweetly ’neath the hazel bough,

And's scarcely seen by ony: Sae sweet amidst her native hills

Obscurely blooms my Jeanie, Mair fair and gay than rosy May,

The flower of Arranteenie. Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,

I view the distant ocean ; There avarice guides the bounding proti,

Ambition courts promotion.-
Let fortune pour her golden store,

Her laurell’d favours many,
Give me but this, my soul's first wish,

The lass of Arranteenie.

THE EVENING STAR.

JOHN LEYDEN.

Born 1775-Died 1811.

How sweet thy modest light to view,

Fair star!-to love and lovers dear; While trembling on the falling dew,

Like beauty shining through the tear ;

Or hanging o'er that inirror-streain

To mark each image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam

To see thy lovely face so fair Though blazing o'er the arch of night,

The moon thy timid beams outshine, As far as thine each starry night,

Her rays can never vie with thine. Thine are the soft enchanting hours,

When twilight lingers on the plain, And whispers to the closing flow'rs

That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring, bland

As music, wafts the lover's sigh,
And bids the yielding heart expand

In love's delicious ecstacy.
Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain ; Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love

But sweeter to be lov'd again.

GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY BE Wľ YOU A'.

SIR ALEXANDER BOSWELL.

Born 1775--Killed 1822.

ye a';

Good night, and joy be wi’
Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my

heart ; May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw !

In sorrow may ye never part !

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