O wae upon you, men o' state,

That brethren rouse to deadly hate!
As ye make many a fond heart mourn,
Sae may it on your heads return!

How can your flinty hearts enjoy
The widow's tear, the orphan's cry?1
But soon may peace bring happy days,
And Willie hame to Logan braes!

O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR.

"Do you know the following beautiful little frag ment, in Witherspoon's collection of Scots songs?

"AIR-Hughie Graham.

"O gin my love were yon red rose,
That grows upon the castle wa';

And I mysel' a drap o' dew

Into her bonny breast to fa'!

"O there, beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;

Originally

"Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys,

The widow's tears, the orphan's cries."

Sealed on her silk-saft faulds to rest,

Till fleyed awa' by Phoebus' light! frightened

"This thought is inexpressibly beautiful, and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain. After balancing myself for a musing five minutes, on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following.

"The verses are far inferior to the foregoing, 1 frankly confess; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place, as every poet who knows any. thing of his trade will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke." - Burns to Mr. Thomson, 25th June, 1793.

O WERE my love yon lilac fair,
Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I, a bird to shelter there,
When wearied on my little wing!

How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing

When youthfu' May its bloom renewed.

BONNY JEAN.

"I have just finished the following ballad, and, as I lo think it in my best style, I send it you.

"The heroine is Miss Macmurdo, daughter to Mr. Macmurdo of Drumlanrig. I have not painted her in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager."- Burns to Mr. Thomson, 2d July, 1793.

THERE was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen;
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonny Jean.

And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie :
The blithest bird upon the bush

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys

That bless the little lintwhite's nest; linnet

And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,

The flower and pride of a' the glen,

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danced wi' Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. lost

As in the bosom o' the stream

The moonbeam dwells at dewy e'en,
So trembling, pure, was tender love
Within the breast o' bonny Jean.1

And now she works her mammie's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wist na what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.

But did na Jeanie's heart loup light,
And did na joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to hers he fondly prest,

And whispered thus his tale o' love:

1“In the original manuscript, our poet asks Mr. Thomason If this stanza is not original." — CURRIE.

"O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

tend

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge, cow-house Or naething else to trouble thee; But stray amang the heather-bells,

And tent the waving corn wi' me."

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na;
At length she blushed a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

TUNE-Robin Adair.

"I have tried my hand on Robin Adair, and, you will probably think, with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I de spair of doing anything better to it."-Burns to Mr. Thomson, August, 1793.

WHILE larks with little wing

Fanned the pure air,
Tasting the breathing spring,