Then tell me how to woo thee, love;

O tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye,
I'll dight me in array ;

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thy ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel',
That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me;
I never lov'd but

For

you.

you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue;

The late Mr. Graham of Gartmore wrote this elegant and chivalrous song. The chorus is the echo of a fragment of old verse, and might be omitted, like many other supplemental rhymes of the same nature which are scattered among our lyrics, without offering any injury to the

song.

My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer:
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the highlands, farewell to the north,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow!
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below!
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods!
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods !
My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer:
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the highlands, wherever I go.

The first half stanza of this song is old, the rest is the work of Burns. Of the old song I am sorry I can give no larger specimen. It was the lamentation, I understand, of a highland lady who, wedded to some churlish lowland lord, languished for her green glens, her boundless hills, and her sylvan liberty.

O GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED RÓSE.

O gin my

love were yon red rose

That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,

Into its bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh, there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on its silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.

O were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing:
How I wad mourn, when it was torn
By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing,

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

The first eight lines of this song are very old, very beautiful, and very generally admired. The succeeding eight lines are by Burns; but they fail in continuing without abatement the exquisite original feeling and delicacy of the old. The poet, after expressing his admiration of the fragment, says, "I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain after balancing myself for a musing of five minutes on the hind legs of my

elbow chair, I produced the following, which are far inferior to the foregoing, I frankly confess." The peasantry, in whose hands all old verses are diversified by numerous variations, have attempted in vain to imitate the starting sentiment :

O were my love yon lily white

That grows within the garden green,
And I were but the gardener lad,

I wad lie near its bloom at e'en.

Another variation substitutes a leek for the lily, which may indicate that the lover was of Welsh descent. There are varieties without end, and stray verses without number, all echoing in a fainter or ruder way the sentiment of the ancient verse.

BESS AND HER SPINNING WHEEL.

O leeze me on my spinning wheel,
O leeze me on my rock and reel,
Frae tap to tae that cleeds me bien,
And haps me feal and warm at e'en!
I'll sit me down and sing and spin,
While laigh descends the simmer sun,
Blest wi' content, and milk, and meal—--
O leeze me on my spinning wheel!

On ilka hand the burnies trot,

And meet below my theekit cot;
The scented birk and hawthorn white
Across the pool their arms unite,
Alike to screen the birdie's nest,
And little fishes' caller rest:

The sun blinks kindly in the biel',
Where blithe I turn my spinning wheel.

On lofty aiks the cushats wail,
And echo cons the doolfu' tale;
The lintwhites in the hazel braes,
Delighted, rival ither's lays :
The craik amang the clover hay,
The pairtrick whirrin o'er the ley,
The swallow jinkin round my shiel,
Amuse me at my spinning wheel.

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to buy,
Aboon distress, below envy,

O wha wad leave this humble state,
For a' the pride of a' the great?
Amid their flaring, idle toys,
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys,
Can they the peace and pleasure feel
Of Bessy at her spinning wheel?

The old song of "The Lass and her spinning wheel" must have been present to Burns's mind when he wrote this sweeter and gentler strain. The early song is ani