Wha spied I but my ain dear maid Down by her mother's dwelling! And turn'd me round to hide the flood That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
Oh! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom !
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I've served my king and country lang-
Take pity on a sodger!"

Sae wistfully she gazed on me,

And lovelier was than ever;
Quo' she, "A sodger ance I loe'd,
Forget him shall I never :
Our humble cot and hamely fare
Ye freely shall partake o't;
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't."
She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,
"Art thou my ain dear Willie ?"
"By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded,

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted!
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be narted."

Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;

And come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly."

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.

THE SONS OF OLD KILLIE.

TUNE-Shawnboy.

YE sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, To follow the noble vocation;

Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another

To sit in that honoured station. I've little to say, but only to pray,

As praying's the ton of your fashion; A prayer from the muse you well may excuse, "Tis seldom her favourite passion.

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide,

Who marked each element's border;

Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, Whose sovereign statute is order;

Within this dear mansion may wayward conOr withered envy ne'er enter;

[tention

May secrecy round be the mystical bound,

And brotherly love be the centre.

THE TITHER MORN.

To a Highland Aır.

THE tither morn, when I forlorn
Aneath an aik sat moaning,
I did na trow, I'd see my jo,
Beside me, gain the gloaming.
But he sae trig, lap o'er the rig,
And dawtingly did cheer me,
When I, what reck, did least expec',
To see my lad so near me.

His bonnet he, a thought ajee,

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me; And I, I wat, wi' fainness grat, While in his grips he press'd me. Deil tak the war! I late and air, Hae wish'd since Jock departed; But now as glad I'm wi' my lad, As short syne broken-hearted. Fu' aft at e'en wi' dancing keen, When a' were blythe and merry,

I car'd na by, sae sad was I,

In absence o' my dearie.

But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest,
I'm happy wi' my Johnny :

At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there,
And be as canty's ony.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.
TUNE-The weary Pund o' Tow.
THE weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow;
I think my wife will end her life
Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o' lint
As guid as e'er did grow;
And a' that she has made o' that,
Is ae poor pund o' tow.
There sat a bottle in a bole,
Beyont the ingle lowe,

And aye she took the tither souk,
To drouk the stowrie tow.

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow!
She took the rock, and wi' a knock
She brak it o'er my pow.

At last her feet-I sang to see't-
Gaed foremost o'er the knowe;
And or wad anither jad,
I'll wallop in a tow.

THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER.
TUNE-Morag.

LOUD blaw the frosty breezes,

The snaws the mountains cover;

Like winter on me seizes,

Since my young Highland Rover

Far wanders nations over.

Where'er he go, where'er he stray,
May Heaven be his warden,
Return him safe to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon !
The trees now naked groaning,
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging,
The birdies dowie moaning,
Shall a' be blythely singing,
And every flower be springing.
Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day,
When by his mighty warden
My youth's returned to fair Strathspey,
And bonnie Castle-Gordon.

THEIR GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE.

TUNE-Humours of Glen.

THEIR groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;

Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,

Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly

unseen:

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild

flowers,

[Jean.

A-listening the linnet, aft wonders my