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In vain does memory renew

The hours once ting'd in transport's dye:
The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the thought to agony.
Ev'n conscious virtue cannot cure

The pang to ev'ry feeling due ;
Ungen'rous youth, thy boast how poor,

To steal a heart, and break it too !

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,

Just what would make suspicion start ;
No pause the dire extremes between,

He made me blest—and broke my heart !
Hope from its only anchor torn,

Neglected and neglecting all,
Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn,

The tears I shed must ever fall.

(The four first lines of the last stanza are by Burns.]



Born 1742—Died 1825.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day, But glory remains when their lights fade away. Begin, ye tormentors; your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

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Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.
Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,
And the scalps which we bore from your nation away.
Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;
But the son of Alknomook can never complain.
I go to the land where my father is gone :
His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.
Death comes like a friend, to relieve me froin pain;
And thy son, 0 Alknomook, has scorn'd to complain!

(Wife of the celebrated John Hunter, and sister to Sir Everard Home.)


O gin my love were yon red rose,

That grows upon the castle wa';
And I mysel a drap o' dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh, there beyond expression blest,

I'd feast on beauty a’ the night ;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,

Till fley'd awa by Phæbus' light.”
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.

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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.

[The first stanza of this exquisite little song was published by Herd in 1776, “ the thought is," writes Burns, “ inexpressibly beautiful ; and quite, so far as I know, original. I have often tried to eke out a stanza to it, but in vain." The poet nevertheless, after balancing himself in his elbow chair, and musing for five minutes, produced the other verse; which, though he thought little of, is only inferior to the original.

From Herd's MSS. Sir Walter Scott printed in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, a different copy of the Song, which is here subjoined.

O gin my love were yon red rose,

That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysell a drap of dew,
Down on that red rose I wad fa'.
O my loves bonny, bonny, bonny ;

My loves bonny, and fair to see ;
Whene'er I look on her weel-far'd face,

She looks and smiles again to me.

O gin my love were a pickle of wheat,

And growing upon yon lily lee,
And I mysell a bonny wee bird
Awa' wi' that pickle o' wheat I wad flee.

O my loves bonny, &c.

O gin my love were a coffer o' gowd,

And I the keeper of the key,
I wad open the kist whene'er I list,
And in that coffer I wad be.

O my loves bonny, &c.

Allan Cunningham has given from tradition two additional verses, in which the lover wishes his lady first a "leek," and next a “ fra. grant gean," both certainly modern fabrications. And that curious finder of old verse, Mr. Peter Buchan, has presented the ingenious

Mr. Motherwell of Glasgow, with “ a perfect copy of the old song as current in the porth, and recovered by him," for which all true anti. quaries stand his debtor, if any one of them could for a moment believe the silly additions Mr. Buchan has made to Herd's beautiful fragment genuine. Could not Mr. Buchan procure the original of “ Tam Glen,” somewhere near Aberdeen, and oblige that learned gentleman, who's

grown so weel acquent wi' Buchan

And ither chaps,
The weans haud out their fingers langhin

And pouk his hips.

See MOTHERWELL, BUCHAN, and Hooo's Edition of Burns,

Part vi. p. 103.]



Talk not of love it gives me pain,

For love has been my foe;
He bound me with an iron chain,

And plunged me deep in woe.
But friendship’s pure and lasting joys,

My heart was form’d to prove,
There, welcome win, and wear the prize,

But never talk of love.

Your friendship much can make me blest,

O why that bliss destroy!
Why urge the only one request

You know I will deny!

Your thought, if love must harbour there,

Conceal it in that thought:
Nor cause me from my bosom tear

The very friend I sought.

(These verses are printed in the second volume of Johnson's Mus. Mus. 1788, headed “ By a Lady," and with the signature M. attached to them. They are well known to have been the composition (save the last four lines, which are by Burns himself) of Mrs. MÄLehose, the celebrated Clarinda of the poet, to whom he addressed in the gaiety of his heart the letters signed Sylvander, full of the flames and darts found in the burlesque pastorals of Tay, and the sighs and vows of the Grub-street school of writers. The lady is still alive in Edinburgh, honoured by a wide circle of relations and friends.)



Born 1759-Died 1796.

'Twas even-the dewy fields were green,

On every blade the pearls hang,
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,

And bore its fragrant sweets alang :
In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,

All nature listening seein'd the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

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