O, she was a canty quean,

An' weel could dance the Hieland walloch!
How happy I, had she been mine,
Or I been Roy of Aldivalloch!
Roy's wife, etc.

Her hair sae fair, her e'en sae clear,

Her wee bit mou' sae sweet and bonnie!
To me she ever will be dear,

Though she's forever left her Johnnie.
Roy's wife, etc.

Mrs. Grant of Carron.

Ballochmyle.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,

THE

The flowers decayed on Catrine lea, Nae laverock sang on hillock green,

But Nature sickened on the ee. Through faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wildwood echoes rang, Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye 'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers,
Again ye 'll charm the vocal air.

But here, alas! for me nae mair
Shall birdie charm or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,
Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!

Robert Burns.

THE BONNIE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.

T

WAS even,

the dewy fields were green,

On every blade the pearls hang! The Zephyr wantoned round the bean, And bore its fragrant sweets alang; In every glen the mavis sang,

All Nature listening seemed the while,
Except where greenwood echoes rang,
Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward strayed,
My heart rejoiced in Nature's joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,

A maiden fair I chanced to spy.
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like Nature's vernal smile;
Perfection whispered, passing by,
Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,
And sweet is night in autumn mild,
When roving through the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild :
But woman, Nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile;

Even there her other works are foiled
By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Though sheltered in the lowest shed
That ever rose on Scotland's plain,
Through weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil,
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slippery steep,
Where fame and honors lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine;

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day has joys divine

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle.

Robert Burns.

THE

Balmaha.

SUMMER MEMORIES.

HE sun sinks in the west: rich orange hues
Change into purple, and a mellow haze
Falls on the mountains. Solemnly they lie,
In silent grandeur, mirrored on the lake,

Those heights majestic! Nearing Balmaha,
The water-lilies, rocking on the swell
Made by the oars, have sunset's rosy blush
Upon their snow-white chalices. Broad leaves
Of glossy green that on the surface float,
As oar-blades lift their long elastic stems,
Flap on the water.

The veil of evening falls. A mighty calm Pervades the landscape. In the gloaming, even The rugged heights, with outline softened, yield To charméd sleep. All breathing deep repose, There is a summer softness in the air; And sweet that dewy fragrance from the flowers We know are springing all around our feet, Although we cannot see their loveliness. Yon scarlet flakes hung low in amber air, Beyond the purple peaks, intensely burn, Till each streak, waxing thread-like, disappears, Foretelling bright to-morrow. From lone cots, Hid by the trees, thin columns of blue smoke, Ascending, mingle with the twilight shades, And die in blue mid-air. Wending along By wooded promontories, overhead Far-stretching branches interlace, and cast Their dusky shadows on our path. We meet The herd-boy bringing home the lowing kine, And, gazing, follow him, till all the train, Last he himself, in windings of the way Is lost.

*

Full orbed,

In mild effulgence from the dim blue hills,
The fair moon rises, shedding o'er the world
A wild romantic beauty. On the lake
Her yellow lustre glimmers, taking all
The gentle ripples by the pebbly marge;
While rising terraces of dark green trees
Repose in silence, bronze-like, touched with gold;
And island groups clothed to the water's brink,
Each mirrored double in the clear blue deep,
Seem ever varying as we walk along.

We mark rude bridges, torrents, mountain bourns,
Lone paths into the woods, and, through the leaves,
Steep cataracts dashing, in white silvery foam;
The hushed air, fragrant with the tedded hay;
And dew-drops sparkling on each blade of grass.

ET us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,

Where the blaeberries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;

Where the deer and the roe,

Lightly bounding together,