you would imagine she coveted the notice of a man, rather than Had a half-witling lord written the been flattered, and she would have Had Lord Daer written it-would it studied the delicacy of her sex. poem, her vanity would have acknowledged the compliment. not have been answered? Curst be the verse how sweet soe'er it flow, That makes a blush on woman's cheek to glow." Burns had frequently seen Miss Alexander at church, and wandering among the braes of Ballochmyle; she was a very showy young lady. The poet acknowledged no superior, he held the patent of his honours immediately from Almighty God!] MARY MORISON. ROBERT BURNS. O Mary, at thy window be, It is the wish'd, the trysted hour! Yestreen, when to the trembling string, To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw; O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, Whose only faut is loving thee? The thought o' Mary Morison. ["This song is one of my juvenile works, I do not think it very remarkable, either for its merits or demerits."-BURNS. "Mary Morison is one of those songs which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind.”-HAZLITT.] THE BANKS O' DOON. ROBERT BURNS. Ye banks and braes o' honnie Doon, And I sae weary fu' o' care! Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, Departed-never to return! Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. [The lady to whose lips these very beautiful lines are given, was a Miss Kennedy of Daigarrock, a young and beautiful girl that fell a victim to her heartless seducer, M'Douall of Logan. I subjoin the earliest version of this favourite lyric. Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fair; And I sae fu' o' care! Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings upon the bough; Thou minds me o' the happy days When my fause luve was true. Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, And my fause lover staw the rose, GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O. ROBERT BURNS. In CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 0: There's nought but care on ev'ry han', The warly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, O; But gie me a canny hour at e'en, For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0: The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Upon some old fragments, now frequently printed, Burns founded this very charming and popular song. The sentiment of the last verse though not new, is as Mr. Cunningham says, "the richest incense any poet ever offered at the shrine of beauty."] THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. ROBERT BURNS. CHORUS. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, To the birks of Aberfeldy? Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, |