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Some lasses will talk to the lads wi' their ee,
Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;
Wi’ Johnnie I stood upon nae stappin’-stane,
Sae I'll never gang back to my mammy again.

Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c.

For mony lang year sin’ I play'd on the lea,
My mammy was kind as a mither could be;
I've held by her apron these aught years and ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.
I've held by her apron,




SCENES of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Now à sad and last adieu !
Bonnie Doon, sae sweet at gloamin',

Fare thee weel before I gang ;
Bonnie Doon, whare, early roaming,

First I weaved the rustic sang.


Bowers, adieu ! whare love decoying

First enthrall’d this heart o' mine;
There the saftest sweets enjoying,

Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine.
Friends, sae near my bosom ever,

Ye hae render'd moments dear ;
But, alas, when forced to sever,

Then the stroke, oh, how severe !

Friends, that parting tear, reserve it,

Though ’tis doubly dear to me ;
Could I think I did deserve it,

How much happier would I be!

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Scenes that former thoughts renew,
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu !

The following particulars regarding this song are given by Mr. Starke in the life of the author in the “ Biographica Scotica,” Edinburgh, 1805 : “ One of Mr. Gall's songs in particular, the original manuscript of which I have by me, has acquired a high degree of praise, from its having been printed among the works of Burns, and generally thought the production of that poet. The reverse, indeed, was only known to a few of Mr. Gall's friends, to whom he communicated the verses before they were published. The fame of Burns stands in no need of the aid of others to support it; and to render back the song in question to its true author, is but an act of distributive justice due alike to both these departed poets, whose ears are now equally insensible to the incense of flattery or the slanders of malevolence. At the time when the Scots Musical Museum' was published at Edinburgh by Mr. Johuson, several of Burns's songs made their appearance in that publication. Mr. Gall wrote the song entitled • A Farewell to Ayrshire,' prefixed Burns's name to it, and sent it anonymously to the publisher of that work. From thence it has been copied into the later editions of the works of Burns. In publishing the song in this manner, Mr. Gall probably thought that it might, under the sanction of a name known to the world, acquire some notice, while in other circumstances its fate might have been to waste its sweetness on the desert air.' Neither Mr. Gall nor his biographer seem to have reflected upon the dishonesty of the proceeding towards the public, and of the gross unfairness towards the greater poet, whose name was used.


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JOHN MAYNE,* author of the “Siller Gun.” First printed in the “Star"

newspaper, 1789. Air—"Logan water.”

“ By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,

Fu’aft wi' glee I've herded sheep-
Herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad on Logan braes.
But wae's my heart ! thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane ;
While my dear lad maun face his faes
Far, far frae me an' Logan

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me-
Meet wi' me, or when its inirk

Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk. * John Mayne, formerly editor of the “ Star" newspaper, died in the year 1836.

I weel may sing thae days are gane-
Frae kirk an' fair I come alane ;
While my dear lad maun face his faes
Far, far frae me an’ Logan braes.

At e'en, when hope amaist is gone,
I dauner out, or sit alane-
Sit alane beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryst wi' me.
Oh, could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless an' my ain!
Beloved by frien's, rever'd by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.”
While for her love she thus- did sigh,
She saw a sodger passing by-
Passing by wi' scarlet claes,
While sair she grat on Logan braes.
Says he, “What gars thee greet sae sair,
What fills thy heart sae fu' o' care ?
Thae sporting lambs hae blythesome days,
An' playfu'skip on Logan braes.”

“ What can I do but weep and mourn ?

I fear my lad will ne'er return-
Ne'er return to ease my waes,
Will ne'er come hame to Logan braes."
Wi' that he clasp'd her in his arms,
And said, “I'm free from war’s alarms;
I now hae conquer'd a' my faes,—
We'll happy live on Logan braes.”
Then straight to Logan kirk they went,
And join'd their hands wi'one consent-
Wi'one consent to end their days,
An' live in bliss on Logan braes.
An' now she sings, “ Thae days are gane,
When I wi' grief did herd alane,

my dear lad did fight his faes Far, far frae me an’ Logan braes.”

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, born 1784, died 1842. From “ Cromek's Remains of Nithsdale

and Galloway Song."
THERE's kames o' hinnie 'tween my luve's lips,

And gowd amang her hair ;
Her breists are lapt in a holy veil,

Nae mortal een keek there.
What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch,

Or what arm o’luve daur span,
The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe,

Or the waist o’Lady Ann?
She kisses the lips o’her bonnie red rose,

Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;
But nae gentle lip nor semple lip

Maun touch her ladie mou.
But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o’gowd,

Her jimpy waist maun span;
Oh, she's an armfu' fit for heaven-

My bonnie Lady Ann !
Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers

Tied up wi' siller thread,
And comely sits she in the midst,

Men's longing een to feed.
She waves the ringlets frae her cheek

Wi' her milky, milky hand;
And her every look beams wi' grace divine,

My bonnie Lady Ann.
The mornin'clud is tasselt wi' gowd,

Like my luve's broider'd cap;
And on the mantle that my luve wears

Is many a gowden drap.
Her bonnie ee-bree's a holy arch,

Cast by nae earthly han’;
And the breath o'heaven is atween the lips

O’my bonnie Lady Ann.
I wonderin' gaze on her stately steps,

And I beet a hopeless flame;
To my luve, alas ! she mauna stoop,

It wad stain her honour'd name.

My een are bauld, they dwall on a place

Where I daurna mint my hand ; But I water and tend and kiss the flowers

O’my bonnie Lady Ann.

I am but her father's gardener lad,

And puir, puir is my fa';
My auld mither gets my wee wee fee,

Wi' fatherless bairnes twa.
My lady comes, my lady gaes

Wi’ a fu' and kindly han’;
Oh, their blessin' maun mix wi' my luve,

And fa' on Lady Ann!


ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. From “ Cromek's Remains."

GONE were but the winter cold,

And gone were but the snaw,
I could sleep in the wild woods,

Where primroses blaw.

Cold's the snaw at my head,

And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death's at my een,

Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father,

Or my mother sa dear-
I'll meet them both in heaven

At the spring of the year.



The moon is gleaming far and near,

The stars are streaming free;
And cold comes down the evening dew

On my sweet babe and me.

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