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Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
I view the distant ocean ;

There avarice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion.-
Let fortune pour her golden store,

Her laurell'd favours many,

Give me but this, my soul's first wish,

The lass of Arranteenie.

I suspect that the "Lass of Arranteenie" is one of those aërial damsels whom lyric poets create as the Egyptians make gods-for the express purpose of falling down and worshipping the work of their own hands. He who sings of the charms of an imaginary maiden must share in the reproach with which the poet assails the Romish church :

Thus Romish bakers praise the deity

They chipp'd, while yet in its paniety.

This is one of poor Tannahill's songs, and contains a pretty picture of modest love and quiet affection.

Behind yon

MY NANNIE-O.

hills where Lugar flows,

'Mang moors an' mosses many-o, The wintry sun the day has clos'd,

An' I'll awa' to Nannie-o:

The westlin wind blaws loud and shill,
The night's baith mirk and rainy-o;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hills to Nannie-o.

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye-o:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie-o!
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie-o;-
The op'ning gowan, wet wi dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie-o.

A country lad is my degree,

An' few there be that ken me-o; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome aye to Nannie-o.

My riches a's my penny-fee,

An' I maun guide it cannie-o; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie-o.

Our auld gudeman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie-o;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nannie-o.

Come weel, come woe, I carena by,

I'll tak what Heav'n will send me-o;

Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, an' love my

Nannie-o.

Burns was fond of his native hills and streams; the rivers and rivulets of Ayrshire are remembered in many a moving song. A very pretty stream, with a very strange name, once flowed in the commencing line of "My Nannie-o:" the poet listened to the complaint of some fastidious singer, and removed Nannie's native stream, and replaced it with the Lugar. Such changes lessen our belief in the local truth of lyric verse; but perhaps Burns exclaimed with Prior, when he sought to excuse himself from the charge of more serious levities, "Ye gods, must one swear to the truth of a song!" The poet, it will be remembered, changed his name from Burness to Burns, a kind of deliberate whim which deprived a very ancient name of an increase of honour. Those who live on the banks of the stream of Stinchar will think of the fame of which the poet deprived them by displacing it for the Lugar.

LORD GREGORY.

O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour,
And loud the tempest's roar;
A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r—
Lord Gregory, ope thy door.

An exile frae her father's ha',

And a' for loving thee;

At least some pity on me shaw,

If love it mayna be.

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove

By bonnie Irwin side,

Where first I own'd that virgin love,

I lang, lang had denied?

How aften didst thou pledge and vow

Thou wad for aye be mine! And my fond heart, itsel sae true,

It ne'er mistrusted thine.

Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory,

And flinty is thy breast:

Thou dart of heaven that flashest by,
O wilt thou give me rest!
Ye mustering thunders from above,

Your willing victim see!

But spare, and pardon my fause love,

His wrangs to heaven and me!

This song, by Burns, and also a song of the same name by Wolcot, were suggested by a very old lyric, called "The Lass of Lochroyan," which far excels them both in poetry and pathos. Wolcot complained with some bitterness of the unkindness of Burns in selecting the same subject as himself, and imputed it to envy. They have both written fine songs: the English verse is the more elegant-the Scottish the more natural. Dr. Currie claims the merit of originality for Wolcot; and Burns disclaims all wish to enter into competition :"My song," he modestly says, "though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity about it."-I wonder if he ever read "The Lass of Lochroyan?"

A RED, RED ROSE.

O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
O, my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I ;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry:

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