THERE WAS A BONNY LASS.

THERE was a bonny lass, and a bonny, bonny

lass,

And she lo'ed her bonny laddie dear,

Till war's loud alarms tore her laddie frae her

arms,

Wi' monie a sigh and a tear.

Over sea, over shore, where the cannons loudly

roar,

He still was a stranger to fear;

And nought could him quail, or his bosom assail But the bonny lass he lo'ed sae dear.

CROWDLE.

“The first verse of this song is old; the second

was writter by Burns."

STENHOUSE.

O THAT I had ne'er been married,

wad never had nae care;

Now I've gotten wife and bairns,
And they cry crowdie evermair.
Ance crowdie, twice crowdie,

Three times crowdie in a day;
Gin ye crowdie ony mair,

Ye'll crowdie a' my meal away.

Waefu' want and hunger fley me,

porridge

affright

Glowrin' by the hallan en'; staring-door-way

Sair I fecht them at the door,

fight

But aye I'm eerie they come ben. alarmed—in

PIECES DOUBTFULLY ATTRIBUTED

TO BURNS.

THE HERMIT.

WRITTEN ON A MARBLE SIDEBOARD, IN THE HERMITAGE BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ATHOLE, IN THE WOOD OF ABERFELDY.

WHOE'ER thou art, these lines now reading,
Think not, though from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in

This desert drear;

That fell remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours;
Free-willed I fled from courtly bowers;'
For well I saw in halls and towers

That lust and pride,

The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers,
In state preside.

I saw mankind with vice incrusted;
I saw that honour's sword was rusted;

That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceived who trusted
To love or friend; .

And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.

In this lone cave, in garments lowly,
Alike a foe to noisy folly,

And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,
I wear away

My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.

This rock my shield, when storms are blowing,
The limpid streamlet yonder flowing
Supplying drink, the earth bestowing
My simple food;

But few enjoy the calm I know in
This desert wood.

Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e'er I felt before in

A palace and with thoughts still soaring
To God on high,

Each night and morn with voice imploring,
This wish I sigh:

"Let me, O Lord! from life retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire,

Remorse's throb, or loose desire;

And when I die,

Let me in this belief expire-
To God I fly."

Stranger, if full of youth and riot,
And yet no grief has marred thy quiet,
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at
The hermit's prayer:

But if thou hast good cause to sigh at
Thy fault or care,

If thou hast known false love's vexation,
Or hast been exiled from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,
And makes thee pine,

Oh! how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!

THE VOWELS:

A TALE.

'Twas where the birch and sounding thong are

plied,

The noisy domicile of pedant pride;