Hey, the dusty miller,
And his dusty sack;
Leeze me on the calling
Fills the dusty peck,-
Fills the dusty peck,
Brings the dusty siller:
I wad gi'e my coatie
For the dusty miller.

FAIRLY SHOT OF HER.

From "Johnson's Museum."

Он, gin I were fairly shot o' her,
Fairly, fairly, fairly shot o' her!
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

If she were dead, I wad dance on the top o' her.

Till we were married I couldna see licht till her;
For a month after a' thing aye gaed richt wi' her;
But these ten years I hae pray'd for a wright to her-
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

Nane o' her relations or friends could stay wi' her;
The neebours and bairns are fain to flee frae her;
And I my ain sel' am forced to gi'e way till her-
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

She gangs aye sae braw, she's sae muckle pride in her;
There's no a gudewife in the haill country-side like her ;
Wi' dress and wi' drink, the deil wadna bide wi' her-
Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

If the time were but come that to the kirk-gate wi' her,

And into the yird I'd mak' mysel' quit o' her,

I'd then be as blythe as first when I met wi' her—

Oh, gin I were fairly shot o' her!

This is a modern version of an old song, and is said to have been written by one John Anderson, at that time apprentice to Johnson the engraver, and publisher of the "Museum," where the song first appeared.

WHA wadna be in love

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder?

A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And speir'd what wast they ca'd her. Right scornfully she answer'd him, Begone, you hallanshaker!

Jog on your gate, you bladderskate !
My name is Maggie Lauder.

Maggie, quo' he, and by my bags,
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee;
Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,
In troth I winna steer thee;

For I'm a piper to my trade,

My name is Rob the Ranter;
The lasses loup as they were daft
When I blaw up my chanter.

Piper, quo' Meg, hae ye your bags,
Or is your drone in order?
If ye be Rob, I've heard of you,—
Live
you upo' the Border?

The lasses a', baith far and near,

Hae heard o' Rob the Ranter;

I'll shake my foot with right gude will,
Gif you'll blaw up your chanter.

Then to his bags he flew wi' speed,
About the drone he twisted;
Meg up and wallop'd o'er the green,
For brawly could she frisk it.
Weel done! quo' he-Play up! quo' she
Weel bobb'd! quo' Rob the Ranter;
'Tis worth my while to play indeed
When I hae sic a dancer.

Weel hae you play'd your part, quo' Meg;
Your cheeks are like the crimson;
There's nane in Scotland plays sae weel

Since we lost Habbie Simpson.

I've lived in Fife, baith maid and wife,

These ten years and a quarter ;

"This old song," says Burns," so pregnant with Scottish naïveté and energy, is much relished by all ranks, notwithstanding its broad wit and palpable allusions. Its language is a precious model of imitation,-sly, sprightly, and forcibly expressive. Maggie's tongue wags out the nick-names of Rob the piper with all the careless lightsomeness of unrestrained gaiety."

KISSING'S NO SIN.

ANONYMOUS. Seventeenth or eighteenth century.

SOME say that kissing's a sin;

But I think it's nane ava,

For kissing has wonn'd in this warld

Since ever that there was twa.

Oh, if it wasna lawfu’,

Lawyers wadna allow it;

If it wasna holy,

Ministers wadna do it.

If it wasna modest,

Maidens wadna tak' it;

If it wasna plenty,

Puir folk wadna get it.

Bring a' your maut to me,

Bring a' your maut to me;

My draff ye'se get for ae pund ane,

Though a' my deukies should dee.

We are indebted to Mr. Robert Chambers for the preservation of the first three verses of this characteristic ditty. It was recovered by him from the singing of a friend, and first printed in 1829 in his "Historical Essay on Scottish Song."

FOR A' THAT.

ROBERT BURNS.

Is there for honest poverty

That hangs his head and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by;
We dare be puir for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

Our toils obscure and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin' grey and a' that;

Gi'e fools their silks, an' knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

Their tinsel show and a' that;

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that;
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might-
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities and a' that;

The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
As come it will for a' that,

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth
May bear the gree and a' that.
For a' that and a' that,

It's comin' yet for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that.

In reference to this immortal song, founded on a more ancient and very inferior one, with the same burden, or "overlay," Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson:-" A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for songwriting. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme."

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD.

BURNS. Air-"Tibbie Fowler in the glen."

WILLIE Wastle dwalt on Tweed,

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie;

Willie was a wabster guid,

Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony bodie;

He had a wife was dour and din,
Oh, Tinkler Madgie was her mither.
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gi'e a button for her.