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Has pierced me through an' through the heart,

An' plagues me wi' the prinkling o't. I tried to sing, I tried to pray,

I tried to drown't wi' drinkin' o't,

I tried wi' sport to drive't away,

But ne'er can sleep for thinkin' o't.
O, love, love, love! &c.

Nae man can tell what pains I prove,
Or how severe my pliskie, O!
I swear I'm sairer drunk wi' love

Than ever I was wi' whisky, O!
For love has raked me fore an' aft,
I scarce can lift a leggie, O!
I first grew dizzy, then gaed daft,
An' soon I'll dee for Peggy, O!
O, love, love, love!

Love is like a dizziness

It winna let a poor body

Gang about his biziness !

O, WEEL BEFA' THE MAIDEN GAY.

THIS song was written at Ellery, Mr Wilson's seat in Westmoreland, where a number of my very best things were written. There was a system of competition went on there, the most delightful that I ever engaged in. Mr Wilson and I had a Queen's Wake every wet day-a fair set-to who should write the best poem between breakfast and dinner, and, if I am any judge, these friendly competitions produced several of our best poems, if not the best ever written on the same subjects before. Mr Wilson, as well as Southey and Wordsworth, had all of them a way of singing out their poetry in a loud sonorous key, which was very impressive, but perfectly ludicrous. Wilson, at that period, composed all his poetry, by going over it in that sounding strain; and in our daily competitions, although our rooms were not immediately adjoining, I always overheard what progress he was making. When he came upon any grand idea, he opened upon it full swell, with all the energy of a fine foxhound on a hot trail. If I heard many of these vehement aspirations, they weakened my hands and discouraged my heart, and I often said to myself, "Gudefaith, it's a' ower wi' me for this day!" When we went over the poems together in the evening, I was always anxious to learn what

parts of the poem had excited the sublime breathings which I had heard at a distance, but he never could tell me.

There was another symptom. When we met at dinnertime, if Mr Wilson had not been successful in pleasing himself, he was desperate sulky for a while, though he never once missed brightening up, and making the most of the subject. I never saw better sport than we had in comparing these poems. How manfully each stood out for the merits of his own! But Mrs Wilson generally leaned to my side, nominally at least. I wrote the "Ode to Superstition" there, which, to give Mr Wilson justice, he approved of most unequivocally. He wrote "The Ship of the Desert” against it -a thing of far greater splendour, but exceedingly extravagant. I likewise wrote "The Stranger" and "Isabelle" there, both to be found in the Poetic Mirror; and I know some of the poems that Mr Wilson wrote against these too, if I were at liberty to tell. The one he wrote that day on which I composed the following song, was not a song, but a little poem in his best style. What with sailing, climbing the mountains, driving with Bob to all the fine scenery, dining with poets and great men, jymnastics (as Wilson spells it in the Noctes), and going to tell our friends that we were not coming to dine with them-these were halcyon days, which we shall never see again!

O, WEEL befa' the maiden gay,
In cottage, bught, or penn,
An' weel befa' the bonny May

That wons in yonder glen;

Wha loes the modest truth sae weel,

Wha's aye kind, an' aye sae leal,

An' pure as blooming asphodel
Amang sae mony men.

O, weel befa' the bonny thing
That wons in yonder glen!

'Tis sweet to hear the music float

Along the gloaming lea;

"Tis sweet to hear the blackbird's note

Come pealing frae the tree;

To see the lambkin's lightsome race—

The speckled kid in wanton chase

The young deer cower in lonely place,
Deep in her flowing den;

But sweeter far the bonny face
That smiles in yonder glen!

O, had it no' been for the blush

O' maiden's virgin flame,

Dear beauty never had been known,

An' never had a name;

But aye sin' that dear thing o' blame Was modell'd by an angel's frame,

The power o' beauty reigns supreme O'er a' the sons o' men;

But deadliest far the sacred flame

Burns in a lonely glen!

There's beauty in the violet's vest

There's hinney in the haw

There's dew within the rose's breast,

The sweetest o' them a'.

The sun will rise an' set again,

An' lace wi' burning goud the mainThe rainbow bend outow'r the plain,

Sae lovely to the ken;

But lovelier far my bonny thing

That wons in yonder glen!

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