PRAYER FOR MARY.‡

TUNE- BLUE BONNETS.'

POWERS celestial, whose protection
Ever guards the virtuous fair,
While in distant climes I wander,
Let my Mary be your care:
Let her form sae fair and faultless,
Fair and faultless as your own;

Let my Mary's kindred spirit

Draw

your

choicest influence down.

Make the gales you waft around her
Soft and peaceful as her breast;
Breathing in the breeze that fans her,
Sooth her bosom into rest :
Guardian angels, O protect her,
When in distant lands I roam;
To realms unknown while fate exiles me,
Make her bosom still my home.

These verses, which are printed in Cromek's Reliques, were probably written on Highland Mary, on the eve of the Poet's intended departure to the West Indies.

YOUNG PEGGY.+

TUNE LAST TIME I CAM O'ER THE MUIR.'

YOUNG Peggy blooms our bonniest lass,
Her blush is like the morning,
The rosy dawn, the springing grass,
With early gems adorning :
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams
That gild the passing shower,
And glitter o'er the crystal streams,
And cheer each fresh'ning flower.

Her lips more than the cherries bright,
A richer dye has grac'd them,
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight,
And sweetly tempt to taste them :
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild,
When feather'd pairs are courting,
And little lambkins wanton wild,
In playful bands disporting.

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe,
Such sweetness would relent her,
As blooming Spring unbends the brow
Of surly, savage Winter.

This song is printed in Cromek's Reliques. Young Peggy was " Montgomery's Peggy" elsewhere mentioned.

Detraction's eye no aim can gain
Her winning powers to lessen;
And fretful envy grins in vain,
The poison'd tooth to fasten.

Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and Truth,
From ev'ry ill defend her;
Inspire the highly favour'd youth
The destinies intend her;

Still fan the sweet connubial flame
Responsive in each bosom;
And bless the dear parental name
With many a filial blossom.

THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME.+

A SONG.

BY yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey?
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;

On the 12th March, 1791, Burns wrote to Thomson, "Lest I sink into stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the page in my own way, and give you another song of my late composition, which will appear, perhaps, in Johnson's work, as well as the former. You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.'

We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blameThere'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,

And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame-There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

THERE WAS A LA D.t

TUNE DAINTY DAVIE.'

THERE was a lad was born at Kyle,‡
But what'n a day o' what'n a style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin.

When political combustion ceases to be the object of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of historians and poets."

+ This song, of which he was himself the hero, was one of the Poet's early productions, it occurs among his private notes in May, 1784, or 1785.

Kyle-a district of Ayrshire.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,*
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof,

Quo' scho wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof,

I think we'll ca' him Robin.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
aye a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit to us a',

But

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin.

Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, Sir,
gar the lasses

Ye

....

But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,

So blessings on thee, Robin!

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin' Boy.

Burns' biographers place his birth on the 29th instead of the 25th of January, 1759. George the Second died in October, 1760.