pleasant walk for her lover; and the words which express their happiness and their love have been called overwarm and indiscreet. But no one has successfully moderated the warmth or lessened the indiscretion. It is the composition of Crauford, and was printed in Ramsay's collection, and in every collection since, and so may it continue.

THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.

The last time I came o'er the moor,

I left my love behind me.
Ye powers! what pain do I endure,
When soft ideas mind me!
Soon as the ruddy morn display'd
The beaming day ensuing,

I met betimes my lovely maid
In fit retreats for wooing.

Beneath the cooling shade we lay,
Gazing and chastly sporting;
We kiss'd and promis'd time away,
Till night spread her black curtain.
I pitied all beneath the skies,

Ev'n kings when she was nigh me;
In raptures I beheld her eyes,

Which could but ill deny me.

Shou'd I be call'd where cannons roar,
Where mortal steel may wound me ;
Or cast upon some foreign shore,
Where dangers may surround me :
Yet hopes again to see my love,

To feast on glowing kisses,

Shall make my cares at distance move,
In prospect of such blisses.

In all my soul there's not one place

To let a rival enter:

Since she excels in every grace,

In her my love shall center.
Sooner the seas shall cease to flow,
Their waves the Alps shall cover,
On Greenland ice shall roses grow,
Before I cease to love her.

The next time I go o'er the moor,
She shall a lover find me;

And that my faith is firm and pure,

Tho' I left her behind me;

Then Hymen's sacred bonds shall chain

My heart to her fair bosom,
There, while my being does remain,

My love more fresh shall blossom.

Of this song Burns says, "The first lines of The last time I came o'er the moor,' and several other lines in it, are beautiful: but, in my opinion-pardon me,

revered shade of Ramsay-the song is unworthy of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend." He afterwards said, "The last time I came o'er the moor' I cannot meddle with as to mending it; and the musical world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's words, that a different song, though positively superior, would not be so well received." And when a less gifted versifier altered the song, he interposed and observed, "I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author as Mr. W. proposes. Let a poet if he chooses take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece of his own, but to mangle the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful tongue is now mute for ever in the dark and narrow house-by heaven, it would be sacrilege! I grant that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement; but let him mend the song as the highlander mended his gun-he gave it a new stock, a new lock, and a new barrel."

I neither wholly agree with the censure which Burns passes on the song, nor do I concur in the rule which he lays down concerning the songs of others. He took many liberties himself; and we owe to the aid or the inspiration of old verses many of the most exquisite of his own lyrics: he borrowed whole stanzas, and altered others without acknowledgment or apology, and confesses to a friend, that "The songs marked 'Z' in the Museum I have given to the world as old verses to their respective tunes; but in fact, of a good many of them, little more than the chorus is ancient-though there is no reason for telling any body this piece of intelligence." In a letter to Lord Woodhouselee, inclosing a

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few reliques of west country song, he says-"I had once a great many of these fragments, and some of these here entire; but as I had no idea that any body cared for them, I have forgotten them. I invariably hold it a sacrilege to add any thing of my own to help out with the shattered wrecks of these venerable old compositions; but they have many various readings."

THE LASS OF PATIE'S MILL.

The lass of Patie's mill,

Sae bonnie, blithe, and gay,

In spite of all my skill,

She stole my heart away.

When tedding out the hay,

Bareheaded on the green,
Love 'midst her locks did play,
And wanton'd in her een.

Her arms white, round, and smooth;
Breasts rising in their dawn;

To age it would give youth,

Το press them with his han'.
Through all my spirits ran
An ecstacy of bliss,

When I such sweetness fand

Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,

Like flow'rs which grace the wild,
Her sweets she did impart,

Whene'er she spoke or smil'd:
Her looks they were 30 mild,

Free from affected pride,
She me to love beguil'd ;-
I wish'd her for my bride.

O! had I a' the wealth

Hopetoun's high mountains fill,
Insur'd long life and health,

And pleasure at my will;

I'd promise, and fulfil,

That none but bonnie she,

The lass of Patie's mill,

Should share the same with me.

There is perhaps less originality in song than in any other kind of composition. Many of the most beautiful of our modern lyrics we owe rather to an ancient than a modern impulse. Allan Ramsay's "Lass of Patie's mill" is the renovation of an older song; but how much of the beauty of the new we owe to the charms of the old, I have not heard. Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, informed Burns on the authority of the Earl of Loudon, that Ramsay was struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl, at a place called Patie's Mill, near New-mills; and under the influence of her charms composed this song, which he recited at