Ha, ha, the wooing o't,
Meg grew sick-as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;
Maggie's was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;
Now they're crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

["Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air, which precludes sentiment."-BURNS.

The old words of this song are unworthy of preservation, Burns' first copy of the song is printed in the poet's works by Cunningham, vol. iv. p. 87.]

THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.

ROBERT BURNS.

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning :
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country langTake pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever :
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo❜ed,
Forget him shall I never :
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it,

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,

Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like onie lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,

Art thou my ain dear Willie?
By him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted.
Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize;
The sodger's wealth is honour :
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.

["Burns, I have been informed, was one summer evening at the inn at Brownhill, near Dumfries, with a couple of friends, when a poor way-worn soldier passed the window: of a sudden it struck the poet to call him in, and get the story of his adventures; after listening to which, he all at once fell into one of those fits of abstraction not unusual with him. He was lifted to the region where he had his 'Garland and Singing Robes' about him, and the result was the admirable song for the Mill, Mill O.'"-GEO. THOMSON.]

BONNIE LESLEY.

ROBERT BURNS.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley

As she gaed o'er the border? She's gane like Alexander,

To spread her conquests farther.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;

For Nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we, before thee:
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.

The Deil he cou'dna scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee;
He'd look into thy bonnie face,
"I canna wrang thee."

And say,

The powers aboon will tent thee; Misfortune sha'na steer thee; Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.

SONGS OF SCOTLAND.

Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !

That we may brag, we hae a lass
There's nane again sae bonnie.

["This rhapsody I composed on a charming Ayrshire girl, Miss Lesley Baillie, as she passed through Dumfries to England."— BURNS.

The poet accompanied Miss Baillie (afterwards Mrs. Cuming of Logie) and her father, fifteen miles on their road; "out of pure devotion to admire the loveliness of the works of God." Returning home he composed the above ballad, making a parody, he wrote to Mrs. Dunlop, upon an old ballad beginning—

My bonnie Lizie Bailie

I'll rowe thee in my pladie.

"I am in love," said the poet to another correspondent, "souse! over head and ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean, with the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world."]

HADIA CAVE.

ROBERT BURNS.

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore,

Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar

There would I weep my woes,

There seek my lost repose,

Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more.