Rab wheel't about, to Kate cam' back,
An' gae her mou' a hearty smack,
Syne lengthen'd out a lovin' crack

'Bout marriage, an' the care o't.
Though as she thocht she didna speak,
An' lookit unco mim an' meek,
Yet blythe was she wi' Rab to cleek
In marriage, wi' the care o't.

MARY'S TWA LOVERS.

TUNE-"Bessie Bell and Mary Gray."

DEAR Aunty, I've been lang your care,
Your counsels guid ha'e blest me;
Now in a kittle case ance mair

Wi' your advice assist me:
Twa lovers frequent on me wait,
An' baith I frankly speak wi';
Sae I'm put in a puzzlin' strait
Whilk o' the twa to cleek wi'.

There's sonsy James, wha wears a wig,
A widower fresh and canty,
Though turn'd o' sixty, gaes fu' trig,
He's rich, and rowes in plenty.
Tam's twenty-five, hauds James's pleugh,
A lad deserves regardin';

He's clever, decent, sober too,

But he's no worth ae fardin'.

Auld James, 'tis true, I downa see,
But's cash will answer a' things;
To be a lady pleases me,

And buskit be wi' braw things.
Tam I esteem, like him there 's few,
His gait and looks entice me;
But, aunty, I'll now trust in you,
advise me.

And fix as ye

Then aunt, wha spun, laid down her roke,
An' thus repliet to Mary :

Unequal matches in a yoke

Draw thrawart and camstrarie.

Since gentle James ye dinna like,

Wi's gear ha'e nae connexion;
Tam's like yoursel', the bargain strike,
Grup to him wi' affection.

THE FORLORN SHEPHERD.*

TUNE-"Banks of the Dee."

YE swains wha are touch'd wi' saft sympathy's feelin',
For victims wha 're doom'd sair affliction to dree,
If a heart-broken lover, despairin' an' wailin',
Claim pity, your pity let fa' upon me.

Like you I was blest with content, an' was cheerie,—
My pipe wont to play to the cantiest glee,
When smilin' an' kind was my Mary, sweet Mary,
While Mary was guileless, an' faithfu' to me.

* This song is here printed for the first time.

She promised, she vow'd, she wad be my half-marrow, The day too was set, when our bridal should be; How happy was I, but I tell you wi' sorrow,

She's perjured hersel', ah! an' ruined me. For Ned o' Shawneuk, wi' the charms o' his riches, An' sly winnin' tales, tauld sae pawky an' slee, Her han' has obtain'd, an' clad her like a duchess, Sae baith skaith an' scorn ha'e come down upon me.

Ye braes ance enchantin', o' you I'm now wearie,
An' thou, ance dear haunt, 'neath the aul' thornie tree,
Where in rapture I sat an' dawtit fause Mary,
Fareweel! ye 'll never be seen mair by me.
Awa' as a pilgrim, far distant I'll wander,
'Mang faces unkent, till the day that I dee.
Ye shepherds, adieu! but tell Mary to ponder,
To think on her Vows, an' to think upon me.

JOHN ROBERTSON.

JOHN ROBERTSON, author of "The Toom Meal Pock," a humorous song which has long been popular in the west of Scotland, was the son of an extensive grocer in Paisley, where he was born about the year 1770. He received the most ample education which his native town could afford, and early cultivated a taste for the elegant arts of music and drawing. Destined for one of the liberal professions, the unfortunate bankruptcy of his father put an effectual check on his original aspirations. For a period he was engaged as a salesman, till habits of insobriety rendered his services unavailable to his employer. As a last resort, he enlisted in the regiment of local militia; and his qualifications becoming known to the officers, he was employed as a regimental clerk and schoolmaster. He had written spirited verses in his youth; and though his muse had become mournful, she continued to sing. His end was melancholy: the unfortunate circumstances of his life preyed upon his mind, and in a paroxysm of phrensy he committed suicide. He died in the vicinity of Portsmouth, in the beginning of April 1810, about six weeks before the similar death of his friend, Robert Tannahill. A person of much ingenuity and scholarship, Robertson, with ordinary steadiness, would have attained a good position in life.

THE TOOM MEAL POCK.

PRESERVE us a'! what shall we do,
Thir dark, unhallow'd times;
We're surely dreeing penance now,
For some most awfu' crimes.
Sedition daurna now appear,
In reality or joke;

For ilka chiel maun mourn wi' me,
O'a hinging, toom meal pock,
And sing, Oh waes me!

When lasses braw gaed out at e'en,
For sport and pastime free;
I seem'd like ane in paradise,
The moments quick did flee.
Like Venuses they all appear'd,
Weel pouther'd were their locks;
'Twas easy dune, when at their hame,
Wi' the shaking o' their pocks.
And sing, Oh waes me!

How happy pass'd my former days,
Wi' merry heartsome glee;
When smiling Fortune held the cup,
And Peace sat on my knee.
Nae wants had I but were supplied;
My heart wi' joy did knock,
When in the neuk I smiling saw

A gaucie, weel-fill'd pock.

And sing, Oh waes me!