Such was my Chloris' bonnie face
When first her bonnie face I saw;
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion;

Her pretty ancle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion

Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form and gracefu' air;
Ilk feature-auld Nature

Declared that she could do nae mair.
Hers are the willing chains o' love,

By conquering beauty's sovereign law;
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm,—
She says she lo'es me best of a".

Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunny noon;

Gie me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon

Fair beaming, and streaming

Her silver light the boughs amang;

While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang;
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By whimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,

And say thou love me best of a'?

Burns's songs were not all adapted to Scottish, but some few of them to Irish and to English melodies. "Do you know," he says, in a letter to Thomson, "a blackguard Irish song called 'Onagh's waterfall?' The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic Muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air than none at all."

SECRET LOVE.

From the "Minstrelsy of the North of Scotland," collected by Peter Buchan.

DINNA ask me gin I luve thee,

Deed I darena tell ; ·

Dinna ask me gin I luve thee,

Ask it o' yoursel'.

When ye come to yon town end-
Full mony a lass ye'll see—
Dinna, dinna look at them,
For fear ye mindna me.
Dinna ask me, &c.

Oh, dinna look at me sa aft,
Sae well as ye may trow;
For when ye look at me sae aft,
I canna look at you.

Dinna ask me, &c.

Little ken ye but mony ane
Will say they fancy thee;
But only keep you, mind, to them
That fancy nane but thee.

Dinna ask me, &c.

DELVIN SIDE.

From a manuscript collection of the "Northern Scottish Minstrelsy,"
by Peter Buchan.

WILL ye gae, my bonny May;

Will ye gae, my bonny bridie;

Will ye gae, my bonny May,

An' breast the braes o' Delvin sidie?

Where got ye that bonny May;

Where got ye that bonny bridie?

I got her down by Buchan's how,
An' brought her up to Delvin sidie.

Can ye play me Delvin side;

Can ye play me Delvin diddle?

Oh, play me up sweet Delvin side,

Or else I swear I'll brak your fiddle.

I can play ye Delvin side,

I can play ye Delvin diddle,

I can play ye Delvin side;

My bowstring's sweet, an' sweet's my fiddle.

This composition is of no merit, but is given, with others from Mr. Buchan's collection, as a specimen of the songs that continue to be popular among the peasantry, notwithstanding all that was done by Burns and others to introduce a higher style and better taste among them.

THE EVENING STAR.

DR. JOHN LEYDEN, died 1811.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair star! to love and lovers dear;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through the tear;

Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream
To mark each image trembling there,
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine
As far as thine each starry light-
Her rays can never vie with thine.

Thine are the soft enchanting hours
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs,
That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland
As music, wafts the lover's sigh;
And bids the yielding heart expand
In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doomed to prove

That rapture's tears are mixed with pain

Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love,

But sweeter to be loved again.

SIR WALTER SCOTT, born 1771, died 1832. From "Marmion."

WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die

Under the willow.

Eleu loro.

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;
There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, oh, never!

Eleu loro.

Never, oh, never!

SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the "Lady of the Lake."

My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,