Then be advised, and warning take
From such a man as me,

I'm neither pope nor cardinal,

Nor one of high degree;

You'll meet displeasure everywhere-

Then do as I have done,

E'en tune your pipe, and please yourselves With John of Badenyon.

["An excellent song."-BURNS.]

THE MAID THAT TENDS THE GOATS.

ROBERT DUDGEON.

Up amang yon cliffy rocks

Sweetly rings the rising echo, To the maid that tends the goats, Lilting o'er her native notes.

Hark! she sings, Young Sandy's kind,
An' he's promised ay to lo❜e me;
Here's a brooch I ne'er shall tine

Till he's fairly married to me:

Drive away ye drone Time,
An' bring about our bridal day.

Sandy herds a flock o' sheep,
Aften does he blaw the whistle,
In a strain sae saftly sweet,
Lammies list'ning daurna bleat.

He's as fleet's the mountain roe,
Hardy as the highland heather,
Wading through the winter snow,
Keeping aye his flock together;
But a plaid, wi' bare houghs,
He braves the bleakest norlan blast.

Brawly he can dance and sing
Canty glee or highland cronach ;
Nane can ever match his fling,
At a reel, or round a ring;
Wightly can he wield a rung,
In a brawl he's ay the bangster :
A' his praise can ne'er be sung

By the langest-winded sangster.

Sangs that sing o' Sandy

Come short, though they were e'er sae lang.

[Burns in his Border Tour met with the author of this original song, and in his journal made the following memorandum; "A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy remarkable character-natural penetration, a great deal of information, some genius, and extreme modesty."

Dudgeon was a farmer near Dunse in Berwickshire.]

BESS THE GAWKIE.

REV. MR. MOREHEAD.

Blithe young Bess to Jean did say,

Will ye gang to yon sunny brae,

Where flocks do feed, and herds do stray,

And sport a while wi' Jamie?

Ah, na lass! I'll no gang there,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,
Nor about Jamie tak a care,

For he's ta'en up wi' Maggie.
For hark, and I will tell you, lass,
Did I not see young Jamie pass,
Wi' meikle blitheness in his face,

Out owre the muir to Maggie :
I wat he ga'e her monie a kiss,
And Maggie took them ne'er amiss
"Tween ilka smack pleased her wi' this,
That Bess was but a gawkie-

For when a civil kiss I seek,

;

She turns her head and thraws her cheek,
And for an hour she'll hardly speak :
Wha'd no ca' her a gawkie?

But sure my Maggie has mair sense,
She'll gie a score without offence;
Now gie me ane into the mense,
And ye shall be my dawtie.

O Jamie, ye hae monie ta'en,
But I will never stand for ane
Or twa when we do meet again,

So ne'er think me a gawkie.
Ah, na, lass, that canna be ;

Sic thoughts as thae are far frae me,
Or onie thy sweet face that see,

E'er to think thee a gawkie.

But, whist, nae mair o' this we'll speak, For yonder Jamie does us meet; Instead o' Meg he kiss'd sae sweet,

I trow he likes the gawkie.

O dear Bess, I hardly knew,
When I cam' by your gown sae new;
I think you've got it wet wi' dew.
Quoth she, that's like a gawkie !

It's wat wi dew, and 'twill get rain,
And I'll get gowns when it is gane:
Sae ye may gang the gate ye came,
And tell it to your dawtie.
The guilt appear'd in Jamie's cheek:
He cried, O cruel maid, but sweet,
If I should gang anither gate,

I ne'er could meet iny dawtie.

The lasses fast frae him they flew,
And left poor Jamie sair to rue
That ever Maggie's face he knew,
Or yet ca'd Bess a gawkie.

As they gade owre the muir they sang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
The hills and dales wi' echoes rang,
Gang o'er the muir to Maggie.

["A beautiful song in the genuine Scot's taste. We have few pastoral compositions, I mean the pastoral of nature, that are equal to this."-BURNS.

The author of this favourite song was unknown to Burns. Mr. Cunningham in his songs of Scotland gives good reasons for ascribing it to Mr. Morehead, a minister in Galloway. Printed by Herd in 1769.]

THE BRAES OF BALLENDINE,

DR. BLACKLOCK.

Born 1721-Died 1791.

Beneath a green shade a lovely young swain
Ae ev'ning reclin❜d to discover his pain;

So sad, yet so sweetly he warbled his woe,

The winds ceas'd to breathe, and the fountain to flow;
Rude winds, wi' compassion, could hear him complain,
Yet Chloe, less gentle, was deaf to his strain.

How happy (he cried) my moments once flew,
E'er Chloe's bright charms first flash'd in my view!
Those eyes then wi' pleasure the dawn could survey,
Nor smil❜d the fair morning mair cheerful than they;
Now scenes of distress please only my sight,
I'm tortur'd in pleasure, and languish in light,

Through changes, in vain, relief I pursue,
All, all but conspire my griefs to renew;
From sunshine to zephyrs and shades we repair,
To sunshine we fly from too piercing an air :
But love's ardent fever burns always the same;
No winter can cool it, no summer inflame.

But see the pale moon, all clouded, retires,
The breezes grow cool, not Strephon's desires:
I fly from the dangers of tempest and wind,
Yet nourish the madness that prays on my mind: