THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR.

Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Tho' thus I languish, thus complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded never move her;

At the bonny bush aboon Traquair,
"Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled, and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder;
I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.
I tried to soothe my amorous flame
In words that I thought tender;
If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May,
Its sweets I'll remember;
ay

But now her frowns make it decay,

It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender,
I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

This song is supposed to have supplied the place of an ancient one with the same name, of which no reliques remain. Burns visited the Bush in the year 1787, when he made a pilgrimage to various places celebrated in story and in song, and found it composed of eight or nine ragged birches. The Bush grows on a rising ground overlooking the old mansion of Traquair and the stream of Tweed. It has lately paid a heavy tax to human curiosity, and has supplied nobles, and I have heard princes, with "specimens" in the shape of snuff-boxes and other toys. The Earl of Traquair, in anticipation perhaps of this rage for reliques, planted what he called "The New Bush," but it remains unconsecrated in song, and can never inherit the fame or share in the honours of the old. The song is by Crawford.

TWEEDSIDE.

What beauties does Flora disclose!
How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed!
Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those,
Both nature and fancy exceed.
Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose,
Not all the gay flowers of the field,

Not Tweed gliding gently through those,

༤ཤིར་དོན་སྤྱིས

Such beauty and pleasure does yield. I don

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,"
The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove,
With music enchant ev'ry bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring; un medi

We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,

And love while the feather'd folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day?

Does Mary not tend a few sheep?

34 | ' Do they never carelessly stray,
- While happily she lies asleep?

Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest; #1
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

"Tis she does the virgins excel,

No beauty with her may compare;
Love's graces all round her do dwell,

She's fairest, where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray?
Oh! tell me at noon where they feed?
Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay,

Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?

Tweed-side is a song overflowing with gentleness and beauty: but all who are lovers of nature and simplicity wish Flora resolved into the influence which awakens the flowers, or into any other blameless figure of speech. Burns praises it for its pastoral sweetness and truth, and says the heroine was Mary Stuart, of the Castlemilk family. Family vanity is gratified with the story that one of its number had charms capable of inspiring a song so beautiful; and where we have no surer guide to truth than vanity, we must be content to be no wiser than common fame will allow us. Burns, in saying what he has said, adhered to tradition. The honour of inspiring the song has also been claimed for Mary Scott, the beautiful daughter of Scott of Harden, by one who seldom errs: yet a Dumfriesshire tradition is as good as one of Selkirkshire, and I must own that I feel disposed to ascribe it to the influence of the lady of my native county.-It is one of Crawford's best songs.

VOL. III.

G

BONNIE CHIRSTY.

How sweetly smells the simmer green!
Sweet taste the peach and cherry:
Painting and order please our e'en,
And claret makes us merry:
But finest colours, fruits and flowers,
And wine, though I be thirsty,
Lose a' their charms, and weaker powers,
Compar'd with those of Chirsty.

When wandering o'er the flowery park,
No natural beauty wanting,
How lightsome 'tis to hear the lark,
And birds in concert chanting!
But if my Chirsty tunes her voice,
I'm rapt in admiration ;

My thoughts with ecstasies rejoice,
And drap the hale creation.

Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance,

I take the happy omen,

And aften mint to make advance,

Hoping she'll prove a woman;

But dubious of my ain desert,

My sentiments I smother; With secret sighs I vex my heart,

For fear she love another.