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 PICKERING.

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, O 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 o'erturn'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 were It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald; and came to the Editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark on it."—BURNS.

Since discovered to be the production of a Mr. Thomas Pickering of 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 his 'Lone Vale,' is divine.” -BURNS.]

AULD ROBIN GRAY.

LADY ANNE LINDSAY.

Died 1825.

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,
And a' the warld to sleep are gane :

The waes of my heart fa' in show'rs frae my ee,
When my gudeman lyes sound by me.

Young Jamie loo'd me weel, and sought me for his bride,

But saving a croun he had naething else beside;
To mak that croun a pound, my Jamie gade to sea,
nd the croun and the pound were baith for me.

He hadna been awa, a week but only twa,

When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown

awa;

and my

Jamie at the sea,

My father brak his arm,
And auld Robin Gray came a courting me.

My father coudna work, my mother coudna spin,
I toil'd day and night, but their bread I coudna win ;
Old Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his ee,
Said "Jenny, for their sakes, O marry me."

My heart it said nae, for I look'd for Jamie back,
But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wreck;
The ship it was a wreck, why didna Jenny die,
And why do I live to say, Wae's me?

My father argued sair, my mither didna speak,
She lookit in my face till my heart was like to break;
Sae they gi'ed him my hand, tho' my heart was in the

sea,

And auld Robin Gray is gudeman to me.

I hadna been a wife a week but only four,
When, sitting sae mournfully at the door,

I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I coudna think it he,
'Till he said, “ I'm come back for to marry thee."

O sair did we greet, and mickle did we say,
We took but ae kiss, and we tore ourselves away;
I wish I were dead! but I'm no like to die,
And why do I live to say, Wae's me!

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin,
I darena think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin;
But I'll do my best a gudewife to be,

For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me.

[This tender song was composed about the year 1772, by Lady Anne Lindsay, daughter to the Earl of Balcarras, at a time when she was melancholy, and amusing herself by writing a few poetical tri fles. It came first before the world as a production of olden times, and even some of its admirers were forward enough to ascribe it to David Rizzio, and had it sung before the lovely Mary Queen of Scots. Burns tells us that it was the composition of Lady Ann Lindsay, but in the great poet's day it was not positively known who was the author. In 1823, Lady Ann Lindsay, then Lady Barnard, acknow. Jedged the authorship in a letter to Sir Walter Scott ]