HIGHLAND TAY

WAS written on leaving one of the loveliest scenes in Athol, if not in the world, and one of the sweetest maidens; therefore the song is truly no fiction. It was so true, that a beloved female friend of mine could never endure to hear it sung. It was never published, that I remember of. It is to the air of "The Maid of Isla."

WEAR away, ye hues of spring,
Ye dyes of simmer, fade away;
Round the welcome season bring
That leads me back to Highland Tay.

Dear to me the day, the hour,

When last her winding wave I saw,
But dearer still the bonny bower

That lies aneath yon birken shaw.

Aye we sat, and aye we sigh'd,

For there was ane my arm within; Aye the restless stream we eyed, And heard its soft and soothing din. The sun had sought Glen-Lyon's glade, Forth peer'd the e'ening's modest gem, An' every little cloud that stray'd, Look'd gaudy in its gouden hem.

The playful breeze across the plain
Brought far the woodlark's wooer tale,

An' play'd along the mellow grain
In mimic waves adown the dale.

I saw the drops of dew so clear
Upon the green leaf trembling lie,
But sweeter far the crystal tear

That trembled in a lovely eye.

When lovers meet, 'tis to the mind

The spring-flush o' the blooming year;

But O their parting leaves behind

Something to memory ever dear!

On Ettrick's fairy banks at eve,

Though music melts the breeze away, The gloamin' fall could never leave

A glow like that by Highland Tay.

I'LL NO WAKE WI' ANNIE.

I COMPOSED this pastoral ballad, as well as the air to which it is sung, whilst sailing one lovely day on St Mary's Loch; a pastime in which, above all others, I delighted, and of which I am now most shamefully deprived. Lord Napier never did so cruel a thing, not even on the high seas, as the interdicting of me from sailing on that beloved lake, which if I have not rendered classical, has not been my blame. But the credit will be his own,-that is some comfort.-The song was first harmonized by Mr Heather, London, and subsequently by Mr Dewar of Edinburgh; and is to be found in the Border Garland, last edition, published by Mr Purdie.

O, MOTHER, tell the laird o't,

Or sairly it will grieve me, O,
That I'm to wake the ewes the night,

And Annie's to gang wi' me, O.

I'll wake the ewes my night about,
But ne'er wi' ane sae saucy, O,
Nor sit my lane the lee-lang night
Wi' sic a scornfu' lassie, O:

I'll no wake, I'll no wake,

I'll no wake wi' Annie, O;

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

Dear son, be wise an' warie,

But never be unmanly, O;

I've heard ye tell another tale

Of young an' charming Annie, O.

The ewes ye wake are fair enough,
Upon the brae sae bonny, 0;
But the laird himsell wad gie them a'
To wake the night 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!

P