The little birdies blithely sing,

While o'er their heads the hazels hing,
Or lightly flit on wanton wing

In the birks of Aberfeldy.

The braes ascend, like lofty wa's,
The foamy stream deep-roaring fa's,
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws,
The birks of Aberfeldy.

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers,
White o'er the linns the burnie pours,
And rising, weets wi' misty showers
The birks of Aberfeldy.

Let Fortune's gifts at random flee,
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me,
Supremely blest wi' love and thee,
In the birks of Aberfeldy.

Bonnie lassie, will ye go,

Will ye go, will ye go;
Bonnie lassie, will ye go

To the birks of Aberfeldy?

["I composed these stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, at, or near, Moness," (in Perthshire).-BURNS.

The chorus of the song is old.]

THE DAY RETURNS.

ROBERT BURNS.

The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet,
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line;

Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more-it made thee mine!

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give,
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live.
When that grim foe of life below
Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,

It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.

[The seventh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddell, of Friars-Carse; and these verses were composed in compliment to the day. "One of the most tolerable things I have done in the way of song, is two stanzas I made to an air for a musical gentleman of my acquaintance, composed for the anniversary of his wedding day."-BURNS.]

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR.

ROBERT BURNS.

Wha is that at my bower door?'
O wha is it but Findlay;

‹ Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here!' Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay.

What mak ye sae like a thief ?'

O come and see, quo' Findlay;

'Before the morn ye'll work mischief;' Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

'Gif I rise and let you in ;'

Let me in, quo' Findlay;

'Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din ;'
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
'In my bower, if ye should stay ;'
Let me stay, quo' Findlay;
'I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;'
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

'Here this night if ye remain ;'
I'll remain, quo' Findlay;
'I dread ye'll learn the gate again;'
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

'What may pass within this bower'-
Let it pass, quo' Findlay;

'Ye maun conceal till your last hour;' Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

[An old copy of verses printed in Allan Ramsay's Miscellany, we are told by Gilbert Burns, gave his brother the hint of writing this curious song. See "The Auld Man's Address to the Widow,"

O wha is at my chamber door

Fair widow are ye waukin,

called by Ramsay, "The Auld Man's best Argument."]

ANNA, THY CHARMS.

ROBERT BURNS.

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire,
And waste my soul with care;
But, ah! how bootless to admire,
When fated to despair!

Yet in thy presence, lovely fair!

To hope may be forgiven;
For sure, 'twere impious to despair

So much in sight of heaven.

[Inserted by Burns in the second edition of his poems, the first Edinburgh copy. The idea as Mr. Cunningham observes is taken from the last verse of Hamilton's very exquisite song:-*

Ah! the poor shepherd's mournful fate.

See ante, p. 117. Mr. Motherwell justly remarks that "there is great point and elegance in this little lyric."]

THE POSIE.

ROBERT BURNS.

O luve will venture in, where it daurna weel be seen;
O luve will venture in, where wisdom aince has been;
But I will down yon river rove, among the wood sae
green-

And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May.

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year,
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o❜ my dear,

For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without

a peer

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie mou'; The hyacinth for constancy, wi' its unchanging blueAnd a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair,

And in her lovely bosom, I'll place the lily there ;
The daisy's for simplicity, and unaffected air--
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.

The hawthorn I will pu' wi' its locks o' siller gray,
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break of day.
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak

away

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May.