ALLAN RAMSAY.

S A N G.

PEGGY.
WE
THEN first my dear laddie gade to the green

hill,
And I at ew-milking first sey'd my young skill,
To bear the milk bowie nae pain was to me,
When I at the bughting forgather'd wi' thee.

PATIE.
When corn rigs wav'd yellow, and blue hether bells
Bloom'd bonny on muirland and sweet rising fells,
Nae birns, briers, or breckens gae trouble to me,
If I found the berries right ripen'd for thee.

PEGGY When thou ran, or wrestled, or putted the stane, And came aff the victor, my heart was ay fain; Thy ilka sport manly gave pleasure to me; For nane can putt, wrestle, or run swift as thee.

PATIE,
Our Jenny sings saftly the Cowden-broom knows,
And Rosie lilts sweetly the Milking the ews;
There's few Jenny Nettles like Nansy can sing;
At Thro' the wood, laddie, Bess gars our lugs ring.
But when my dear Peggy sings wi' better skill,
The Boatman, Tweedside, or the Lass of the mill,
'Tis mony times sweeter and pleasing to me;
For tho' they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.

PEGGY.
How easy can lasses trow what they desire!
And praises sae kindly increases love's fire :
Gi' me still this pleasure, my study shall be,
To make mysell better and sweeter for thee.

SANG
HD from himself, now by the dawn

He starts as fresh as roses blawn,
And ranges o'er the heights and lawn,

After his bleeting flocks.
Healthful, and innocently gay,
He chants and whistles out the day;
Untaught to smile, and then betray,

Like courtly weathercocks.
Life happy from ambition free,
Envy and vile hypocrisy,
When truth and love with joy agree,

Unsully'd with a crime:
Unmov'd with what disturbs the great,
In propping of their pride and state,
He lives and unafraid of fate,

Contented spends his time.

S A N G.
SPEAK on, speak thus, and still my grief,

Hold up a heart that's sinking under
These fears, that soon will want relief,

When Pate must from his Peggy sunder, A gentler face and silk attire,

A lady rich in beauty's blossom, Alake, poor me! will now conspire,

To steal thee from thy Peggy's bosom. No more the shepherd who excell'd

The rest, whose wit made them to wonder, Shall now his Peggy's praises tell;

Ah! I can die, but never sunder. Ye meadows, where we often stray'd,

Ye bauks where we were wont to wander; Sweet scented rucks round which we play'd,

You'll lose your sweets when we're asunder. Again, ah! shall I never creep

Around the know with silent duty, Kindly to watch thee while asleep,

And wonder at thy manly beauty? Hear, heav'n, while solemnly I vow,

Tho' thou shouldst prove a wandering lover, Thro' life to thee I shall prove true,

Nor be a wife to any other.

S À N G.

WHEN hope was quite sunt in despair,

to My life appear'd worthless my care,

But now I will sav't for thy sake. Where'er my love travels by day,

Wherever he lodges by night, Wi' me his dear image shall stay,

And my soul keep him ever in sight. Wi' patience l'll wait the lang year,

And study the gentlest charms; Hope time away till thou appear,

To lock thee for ay in these arms. Whilst thou wast a shepherd, I priz'd

No higher degree in this life ; But now I'll endeavour to rise

To a height that's becoming thy wife. For beauty that's only skin deep,

Must fade like the gowans in May,
But inwardly rooted, will keep

For ever, without a decay.
Nor age, nor the changes of life,

Can quench the fair fire of love,
If virtue's ingrain'd in the wife,

And the husband ha'e sense to approve.

S A N G. AT

T setting day and rising morn,

Wi' soul that still shall love thee, I'll ask of heav'n thy safe return,

Wi' a' that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush,

Where first thou kindly tald me Sweet tales of love, and hid my blush,

Wbilst round thou didst enfald me. To a' our haunts I will repair,

By greenwood shaw or fountain;
Or wbere the simmer day I'd share

Wi' thee upon yon mountain.
There will I tell the trees and flow'rs,

From thoughts unfeign'd and tender,
By vows you're mine, by love is your's

A heart which cannot wander.

S A N G. THE bonny grey-ey'd morning begins to peep,

And darkness flies before the rising ray, The hearty hynd starts from his lazy sleep,

To follow healthful labours of the day, Without guilty sting to wrinkle his brow,

The lark and the linnet 'tend his levee, And he joins their concert, driving the plow,

From toil of grimace and pageantry free. While fluster'd with wine, or madden'd with loss

of half an estate, the prey of a main, The drunkard and gamester tumble and toss,

Wishing for calmness and slumber in vain. Be my portion health and quietness of mind,

Plac'd at a due distance from parties and state, Where neither ambition por avarice blind,

Reach him who has happiness link'd to his fate.

WILLIAM COLLINS

THE PASSIONS.

An Ode for Music. WHEN Music, heavenly

maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Possest beyond the Muse's painting ; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb’d, delighted, rais'd, refin'd: Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd; Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound; And, as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for Madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expressive power, First Fear, his hand its skill to try,

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, Aud back recoil'd, he knew not why,

E'en at the sound himself had made. Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,

In lightnings own’d his secret stings, In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept with hurried hand the strings. With woeful measures, wan Despair,

Low sullen sounds, his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild. But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair,

What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure,