I tauld ye ear', I tauld ye late,

That lassie wad trapan ye, O; An' ilka word ye boud to say

When left alane wi' Annie, O!

Take my advice this night for aince,

Or beauty's tongue will ban ye, O, An' sey your leal auld mother's skill Ayont the muir wi' Annie, O.

He'll no wake, he'll no wake,

He'll no wake wi' Annie, O,

Nor sit his lane o'er night wi' ane
Sae thraward an' uncanny, O!

The night it was a simmer night,
An' oh the glen was lanely, O!
For just ae sternie's gowden ee
Peep'd o'er the hill serenely, O.
The twa are in the flow'ry heath,
Ayont the muir sae flowy, O,
An' but ae plaid atween them baith,

An' wasna that right dowie, O?

He maun wake, he maun wake,
He maun wake wi' Annie, O;
An' sit his lane o'er night wi' ane
Sae thraward an' uncanny, O!

Neist morning at his mother's knee
He blest her love unfeign'dly, O;
An' aye the tear fell frae his ee,

An' aye he clasp'd her kindly, O.
"Of a' my griefs I've got amends,
In yon wild glen sae grassy, O;
A woman only. woman kens,-
Your skill has won my lassie, O.
I'll aye wake, I'll aye wake,

I'll aye wake wi' Annie, O,
An' sit my lane ilk night wi' ane

Sae sweet, sae kind, an' canny, O!”

THE LASS O' CARLISLE.

I WROTE this daftlike song off-hand one day to fill up a page of a letter which was to go to Fraser by post, being averse to his paying for any blank paper. I did not deem it worthy of publication anywhere else; but after its having appeared in print, why, let it have a place here.

I'LL sing ye a wee bit sang,

A sang

i' the aulden style,

It is of a bonny young lass

Wha lived in merry Carlisle.

An' O but this lass was bonny,
An' O but this lass was braw,
An' she had gowd in her coffers,
An' that was best of a'.

Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,
Hickerty dickerty dear;

The lass that has gowd an' beauty

Has naething on earth to fear!

This lassie had plenty o' wooers,

As beauty an' wealth should hae; This lassie she took her a man,

An' then she could get nae mae. This lassie had plenty o' weans, That keepit her hands astir; And then she dee'd and was buried, An' there was an end of her.

Sing hey, hickerty dickerty,

Hickerty dickerty dan,

The best thing in life is to make

The maist o't that we can!

MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET

WAS written at the request of Mr Thomson, to the old air bearing that name. But after the verses were written, he would not have them, because they were not good enough. "He did not like any verses," he said, "that had the lines ending with O's, and joes, and yets, &c. as they were very poor expedients for making up the measure and rhyme." He was quite right; but what was a poor fellow to do, tied to a triple rhyme like this?—The song was afterwards published in the Literary Journal.

My love she's but a lassie yet,

A lightsome lovely lassie yet;

It scarce wad do

To sit an' woo

Down by the stream sae glassy yet.