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The morning's gem-the star of love,
My heart with rapture fell a-dancing;
Yet I in all its rays could see,

And all its glories, only thee.

Ah! Marion Graham! 'tis e'en ower true,
And Gude forgie my fond devotion !
In earth's sweet green, and heaven's blue,
And all the dyes that deck the ocean,
The scene that brings nae mind o' thee
Has little beauty to my ee.

Get up, ye little wily knave!

I ken your pawky jinks an' jeering,

You like to hear your lover rave,

An' gar him trow ye

dinna hear him;

Yet weel this homage you'll repay,

Get up, my love, an' come away!

THE FLOWER

WAS published in the Forest Minstrel, upwards of twenty years ago, and has been partially popular ever since.—It was beautifully harmonized to a Gaelic air, by Miss C. Forest, in a single sheet.

O SOFTLY blaw, thou biting blast,
O'er Yarrow's lonely dale,

And spare yon sweet and tender bud

Exposed to every gale!

Long has she hung her drooping head,

Despairing to survive;

But partial sunbeams through the cloud

Still kept my flower alive.

One evening, when the sun was low,
Through yon lone dell I stray'd,
While little birds from every bough

Their music wild convey'd.

The sunbeam lean'd across the shower,

The rainbow girt the glen,

There first I saw my lovely flower

Far from the walks of men.

Her cheek was then the ruddy dawn,
Stole from the rising sun;

The whitest feather from the swan
On her fair breast was dun.

Her mould of modest dignity

Was form'd the heart to win;

The dewdrop glist'ning in her eye,
Show'd all was pure within.

But frost on cold misfortune borne,
Hath crush'd her in the clay;

And ruthless fate hath rudely torn

Each kindred branch away.

That wounded stem will never close,

But bleeding still remain;

Relentless winds, how can you blow,

And nip my flower again!

BIRNIEBOUZLE.

Ir is said "the multitude never are wrong;" so be it. Well, then, this has been a popular street song for nearly thirty years. How does the instance justify the adage? Not well. However, bowing with humility to the public voice, in preference to my own judgment, I give it a place.

AIR-Braes of Tullimett.

WILL ye gang wi' me, lassie,

To the braes o' Birniebouzle?

Baith the yird an' sea, lassie,

Will I rob to fend ye.

I'll hunt the otter an' the brock,

The hart, the hare, an' heather cock,

An' pu' the limpet aff the rock,

To batten an' to mend ye.

If ye'll gang wi' me, lassie,

To the braes o' Birniebouzle,

Till the day you dee, lassie,

Want shall ne'er come near ye.
The peats I'll carry in a skull,
The cod an' ling wi' hooks I'll pull,
An' reave the eggs o' mony a gull,
To please my denty dearie.

Sae canty will we be, lassie,

At the braes o' Birniebouzle,

Donald Gun and me, lassie,

Ever sall attend ye.

Though we hae nowther milk nor meal,
Nor lamb nor mutton, beef nor veal,

We'll fank the porpy and the seal,
And that's the way to fend ye.

An' ye sall gang sae braw, lassie,

At the kirk o' Birniebouzle,

Wi' littit brogues an' a', lassie,

Wow but ye'll be vaunty!

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