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Maria, appear ! now the season so sweet

With the beat of the heart is in tune;
The time is so tender for lovers to meet

Alone by the light of the moon.
I cannot when present unfold what I feel :

I sigh-can a lover do more?
Her name to the shepherds I never reveal,

Yet I think of her all the day o'er.
Maria, my love! do you long for the grove?

Do you sigh for an interyiew soon ?
Does e'er a kind thought run on me as you rove

Alone by the light of the moon ?
Your name from the shepherds whenever I hear

My bosom is all in a glow;
Your voice, when it vibrates so sweet through mine ear,

My heart thrills—my eyes overflow.
Ye powers of the sky, will your bounty divine

Indulge a fond lover his boon?
Shall beart spring to heart, and Maria be mine,

Alone by the light of the moon?

ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch !
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch!
Wat ye how she cheated me
As I came o'er the braes of Balloch?
She vowed, she swore she wad be mine,
Said that she lo’ed me best of ony;'
But, oh! the fickle, faithless quean,
She's ta’en the carle and left her Johpie.

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch!
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch!
Wat ye how she cheated me
As I came o'er the braes of Balloch?
She was a kind and cantie

queen,
Weel could she dance the highland walloch ;
How happy I, had she been mine,
Or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch!

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch!
Roy's wife of Aldivalloch!
Wat ye how she cheated me
As I came o'er the braes of Balloch?
Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear,
Her wee bit mou sae sweet and bonnie !
To me she ever will be dear,
Though she's for ever left her Johnic.

(" Mr. Cromek, an anxioas inquirer into all matters Illustrative of northern song, ascribes Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch, to Mrs. Murray of Bath ; while George Thomson, and all other editors of Scottish song, impute it to Mrs. Grant of Carron. I am not aware that the author. ship has been settled and I am sorry for it; because whoever wrote it has favoured us with a very sprightly and pleasant production.”CUNNINGHAM.)

HER ABSENCE WILL NOT ALTER ME.

Though distant far from Jessy's charms,
I stretch in vain my longing arms;
Though parted by the deeps of sea,
Her absence shall not alter me,

Though beauteous nymphs I see around, A Chloris, Flora, might be found, Or Phillis with her roving e'e; Her absence shall not alter me. A fairer face, a sweeter smile, Inconstant lovers may beguile; But to my lass I'll constant be, Nor shall her absence alter me. Though laid on India's burning coast, Or on the wide Atlantic tost, My mind from love no power could free, Nor could her absence alter me. See how the flow'r that courts the sun Pursues him till his race is run; See how the needle seeks the pole, Nor distance can its power control : Shall lifeless flow'rs the sun pursue, The needle to the pole prove true, Like them shall I not faithful be, Or shall her absence alter me? Ask, who has seen the turtle dove Unfaithful to its marrow prove ! Or who the bleating ewe has seen Desert her lambkin on the green ? Shall beasts and birds, inferior far To us, display their love and care ? Shall they in union sweet agree, And shall her absence alter me? For conq'ring love is strong as death, Like veh’ment flames his pow'rful breath; Through floods unmov'd his course he keeps, Ev’n through the sea's devouring deeps.

His veh’ment flames my bosom burn,
Unchang'd they blaze till I return;
My faithful Jessy then shall see
Her absence has not alter'd me.

THE MINSTREL.

THOMAS PICKERINO,

Keen blaws the wind o’er Donocht-head,

The snaw drives snelly through the dale, The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck,

And shiv'ring tells his waefu' tale : Cauld is the night, O let me in,

And dinna let your minstrel fa'; And dinna let his winding sheet

Be naething but a wreath o' snaw. Full ninety winters hae I seen,

And pip'd whar gorcocks whirring flew; And mony a day ye’ve danc'd, I ween,

To lilts that frae my drone I blew. My Eppie wak'd and soon she cried,

Get up, gudeman, and let him in, For weel ye ken the winter night

Was short when he began his din. My Eppie's voice, 0 wow its sweet !

E'en though she banns and scolds a wee ; But when it's tun'd to pity's tale,

O, haith it's doubly dear to me!

Come in, auld carle, I'll rouse my fire,

And make it bleeze a bonnie flame ;
Your blude is thin, ye've tint the gate;

Ye shoudna stray sae far frae hame.
Nae hame hae I, the minstrel said,

Sad party strife oʻerturn'd my ha',
And, weeping, at the eve o' life,

I wander through a wreath o'snaw.

("*• Donocht-head,' is not mine ; I would give ten pounds it vert It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald; and came to the Editor o that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it."-BURNS.

Since discovered to be the production of a Mr. Thomas Pickering & Newcastle.)

HOW SWEET THIS LONE VALE.

ANDREW ERSKINE.

How sweet this lone vale, and how soothing to feeling,
Yon nightingale's notes which in melody melt!
Oblivion of woe o'er my mind gently stealing,
A pause from keen anguish one moment is felt.
The moon's yellow light o'er the still lake is sleeping ;
Ah! near the sad spot Mary sleeps in her tomb.
Again the heart swells, the eye flows with weeping,
And the sweets of the vale are all shaded with gloom.

["All Mr. Erskine's verses are good, but hie ‘Lone Vale,' is divine," -BURNS.)

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