And what wad ye do there,

At the bush aboon Traquair?

A lang dreich road, ye had better let it be ;
Save some auld scrunts o' birk

I' the hill-side lirk,1

There's nocht i' the warld for man to see.

But the blythe lilt o' that air,
'The Bush aboon Traquair,'

I need nae mair, it 's eneuch for me;
Owre my cradle its sweet chime
Cam sughin' frae auld time,

Sae tide what may, I'll awa' and see.

And what saw ye there,

At the bush aboon Traquair?

Or what did ye hear that was worth your heed?
I heard the cushies croon

Thro' the gowden afternoon,

And the Quair burn singing doun to the vale o' Tweed.

And birks saw I three or four,

Wi' grey moss bearded owre,

The last that are left o' the birken shaw,

Whar mony a summer e'en

Fond lovers did convene,

Thae bonny, bonny gloamins that are lang awa'.

Frae mony a but and ben,

By muirland, holm, and glen,

They cam ane hour to spen' on the greenwood swaird; But lang ha'e lad an' lass

Been lying 'neth the grass,

The green green grass o' Traquair kirkyard.

1 'The hills were high on ilka side
And the bucht i' the lirk o' the hill.'
Ballad of Cowdenknowes.

They were blest beyond compare,
When they held their trysting there,

Amang thae greenest hills shone on by the sun;
And then they wan a rest,

The lownest and the best,

I' Traquair kirkyard when a' was dune.

Now the birks to dust may rot,

Names o' luvers be forgot,

Nae lads and lasses there ony mair convene ;
But the blythe lilt o' yon air

Keeps the bush aboon Traquair,

And the luve that ance was there, aye fresh and green.

Have not these the true flavour of that gentle place and life,-as musical and as melancholy as their streams and glens, as fragrant as their birks and gale ?1 They have the unexpectedness of nature, of genius, and of true song. The native wood-notes wild' of 'the mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.'

There must surely be more of this 'lilting' in our minstrel's wallet; and he may be assured that such a gift of genuine Scottish feeling and verse will be welcomed if revealed. It breathes the caller, strong air of the south country hills, and is a wild 'flower o' the forest' not likely soon to be 'wede awa.'

'Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow's banks the gowan,

Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

1 The Bog-Myrtle.

Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,

As green its grass, its gowan yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow.'

'IN CLEAR DREAM AND

SOLEMN VISION.'