But when 't is auld, it waxeth cauld,
And fades away like morning dew.
O, wherefore should I busk my head?
Or wherefore should I kame my hair?
For my true-love has me forsook,

And says he'll never love me mair.
Now Arthur-Seat shall be my bed,

The sheets shall ne'er be filed by me, Saint Anton's well shall be my drink, Since my true-love 's forsaken me. Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, And shake the green leaves off the tree? O gentle death! when wilt thou come? For of my life I am weary.

"T is not the frost that freezes fell,
Nor blowing snows inclemency;

"T is not sic cauld that makes me cry,
But my love's heart grown cauld to me.
When we came in by Glasgow town,
We were a comely sight to see;
My love was clad in the black velvet,
And I mysel' in cramasie.

But had I wist before I kissed

That love had been so ill to win, I'd locked my heart in a case of gold, And pinned it with a silver pin. And, O, if my young babe were born, And set upon the nurse's knee, And I mysel' were dead and gane, Wi' the green grass growing over me!

Anon

(Green Sydenham, to me forever dear,

As birth-house of the being with whose fate
Mine own is sweetly mingled,

even with thine,

My wife, my children's mother), on I strayed
In a perplexity of pleasing thoughts,
Amid the perfume of blown eglantine,

And hedgerow wild-flowers, memory conjuring up
In many a sweet, bright, fragmentary snatch,
The truthful, soul-subduing lays of him
Whose fame is with his country's being blent,
And cannot die; until at length I gained
A vista from the road, between the stems
Of two broad sycamores, whose filial boughs
Above in green communion intertwined;
And lo! at once in view, nor far remote,
The downward country, like a map unfurled,
Before me lay, green pastures, forests dark,-
And, in its simple quietude revealed,

Ednam, no more a visionary scene.

A rural church; some scattered cottage roofs, From whose secluded hearths the thin blue smoke, Silently wreathing through the breezeless air, Ascended, mingling with the summer sky; A rustic bridge, mossy and weather-stained; A fairy streamlet, singing to itself; And here and there a venerable tree

In foliaged beauty, of these elements,

And only these, the simple scene was formed.

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON.

WHIL

HILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,

Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between;

While Summer with a matron grace
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade;

While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed;

While maniac Winter rages o'er

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows,

So long, sweet Poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won;

While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

Robert Burns.