She comes with maiden's cautious art,

Her stealing steps to tears impel me, For, ah! the beatings of her heart

Come flichterin' on the breeze to tell me. Flee, a' ye sorrows, on the wind,

Ye warldly cares, I'll lightly pass ye;

Nae thought shall waver through my mind, But raptures wi' my bonny lassie.

THERE'S NAE LADDIE COMING,

Is set to a sweet original air by Bishop, and published in Goulding and D'Almaine's Select Scottish Melodies.

THERE'S nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean,
There's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean;
I hae watch'd thee at mid-day, at morn, an' at e'en,
An' there's nae laddie coming for thee, my dear Jean.
But be nae down-hearted though lovers gang by,

Thou'rt my only sister, thy brother am I;

An' aye in my wee house thou welcome shalt be,
An' while I hae saxpence, I'll share it wi' thee.

O Jeanie, dear Jeanie, when we twa were young,
I sat on your knee, to your bosom I clung;

You kiss'd me, an' clasp'd me, an' croon❜d your bit sang,
An' bore me about when you hardly dought gang.
An' when I fell sick, wi' a red watery ee,

You watch'd your wee brother, an' fear'd he wad dee;

I felt the cool hand, and the kindly embrace,

An' the warm trickling tears drappin aft on my face.

Sae wae was my kind heart to see my Jean weep,

I closed my sick ee, though I wasna asleep;
An' I'll never forget till the day that I dee,

The gratitude due, my dear Jeanie, to thee!
Then be nae down-hearted, for nae lad can feel
Sic true love as I do, or ken ye sae weel;

My heart it yearns o'er thee, and grieved wad I be
If aught were to part my dear Jeanie an' me.

APPIE M'GIE.

THIS favourite lively song is likewise set to original music by Bishop; but his air is quite different from that to which it is sung in Scotland, and to which the words were at first adapted, taken from Captain Fraser's collection.

O LOVE has done muckle in city an' glen,
In tears of the women, an' vows of the men;
But the sweet little rogue, wi' his visions o' bliss,
Has never done aught sae unhallow'd as this.
For what do ye think?—at a dance on the green,
Afore the dew fell through the gloaming yestreen,
He has woundit the bosom, an' blindit the ee,
Of the flower o' our valley, young Appie M'Gie.

Young Appie was sweet as the zephyr of even,
And blithe as the laverock that carols in heaven;

As bonny as ever was bud o' the thorn,

Or rose that unfolds to the breath o' the morn.

Her form was the fairest o' Nature's design,
And her soul was as pure as her face was divine.
Ah, Love! 'tis a shame that a model so true,
By thee should be melted and moulded anew.

The little pale flow'rets blush deep for thy blame;
The fringe o' the daisy is purple wi' shame;

The heath-breeze, that kisses the cheeks o' the free,
Has a tint of the mellow soft-breathings of thee.
Of all the wild wasters of glee and of hue,
And eyes that have depths o' the ocean of blue,
Love, thou art the chief! And a shame upon thee,
For this deed thou hast done to young Appie. M'Gie.