ATHOL CUMMERS.

One evening in the winter of 1800, I was sawing away on the fiddle with great energy and elevation, and having executed the strathspey called Athol Cummers, much to my own satisfaction, my mother said to me, "Dear Jimmie, are there ony words to that tune?"-"No that ever I heard, mother."-" O man, it's a shame to hear sic a good tune an' nae words till't. Gae away ben the house, like a good lad, and mak' me a verse till't." The request was instantly complied with.

DUNCAN, lad, blaw the cummers,
Play me round the Athol cummers;
A' the din o' a' the drummers
Canna rouse like Athol cummers.
When I'm dowie, wet or weary,
Soon my heart grows light an' cheery,
When I hear the sprightly nummers
O' my dear, my Athol cummers!

When the fickle lasses vex me,
When the cares o' life perplex me,
When I'm fley'd wi' frightfu' rumours,
Then I lilt o' Athol cummers.

'Tis my cure for a' disasters,

Kebbit ewes an' crabbit masters,
Drifty nights anʼ dripping summers---

A' my joy is Athol cummers!

Ettrick banks an' braes are bonny,
Yarrow hills as green as ony;
But in my heart nae beauty nummers
Wi' my dear, my Athol cummers,
Lomond's beauty nought surpasses,
Save Breadalbane's bonny lasses;

But deep within my spirit slummers Something sweet of Athol cummers.

*

LOVE LETTER.

Aн, Maggy, thou art gane away,
And left me here to languish,
To daunder on frae day to day,
Swathed in a sort o' anguish.
My mind's the aspen o' the vale,
In ceaseless waving motion;
'Tis like a ship without a sail,
On life's unstable ocean!

I downa bide to see the moon
Blink o'er the hill sae dearly,
Late on a bonny face she shone,
A face that I loe dearly.
An' when down by the water clear
At e'en I'm lonely roaming,

I sigh, an' think if ane war here,
How sweet wad fa' the gloaming.

Ah, Maggy, thou art gane away,
An' I nae mair shall see thee;
Now a' the lee-lang simmer day,
An' a' the night I weary;

For thou wert aye sae sweet, sae gay,
Sae teazing an' sae canty,

* Maidens.

1 dinna blush to swear an' say, In faith I canna want thee !

O, in the slippery paths o' love
Let prudence aye direct thee,
Let virtue every step approve,
And virtue will respect thee.
To ilka pleasure, ilka pang,
Alack! I am nae stranger,

An' he wha aince has wander'd wrang,
Is best aware of danger.

May still thy heart be kind an' true,
A' ither maids excelling,

An' heaven shall shed its purest dew
Around thy rural dwelling.
May flow'rets spring, an' wild birds sing
Around thee late an' early,

An' oft to thy remembrance bring
The lad that loes thee dearly!

MISCHIEVOUS WOMAN.

COULD this ill warld hae been contrived To stand without mischievous woman. How peacefu' bodies might hae lived, Released frae a' the ills sae common ; But since it is the waefu' case

That man maun hae this teazing crony, Why sic a sweet bewitching face?

O had she no been made sae bonny!

I might hae roam'd wi' cheerfu' mind,
Nae sin or sorrow to betide me,
As careless as the wandering wind,

As happy as the lamb beside me ;
I might hae screw'd my tunefu' pegs,
And caroll'd mountain airs fu' gaily,
Had we but wantit a' the Megs,

Wi' glossy een sae dark an' wily.

I saw the danger, fear'd the dart,
The smile, the air, an' a' sae taking,
Yet open laid my wareless heart,

An' gat the wound that keeps me waking.
My harp waves on the willow green,
O' wild witch-notes it has nae ony
Sin' e'er I saw that pawky quean,
Sae sweet, sae wicked, an' sae bonny!

FAIR WAS THY BLOSSOM.

FAIR was thy blossom, bonny flower,
That open'd like the rose in May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay.

How oft above thy lowly bed,

When all in silence slumber'd low,

The fond and filial tear was shed,

Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!

Fair was thy blossom, bonny flower,

Fair as the softest wreath of spring,

When late I saw thee seek the bower,
In peace thy morning hymn to sing.
Thy little foot across the lawn

Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew; I thought the spirit of the dawn

Before me to the greenwood flew.

The fatal shaft was on the wing,

Thy spotless soul from guilt to sever; A tear of pity wet the string,

That twang'd, and seal'd thine eye for ever.

I saw thee late the emblem true

Of beauty, innocence, and truth, Stand on the upmost verge in view, 'Twixt childhood and unstable youth.

But now I see thee stretch'd at rest

To break that rest shall wake no morrow

Pale as the grave-flower on thy breast,

Poor child of love, of shame, and sorrow! May thy long sleep be sound and sweet, Thy visions fraught with bliss to be!

And long the daisy, emblem meet,
Shall shed its earliest tear o'er thee!

COURTING SONG.

THE day-beam's unco laith to part,
It lingers o'er yon summit low’ring,
While I stand here with beating heart,
Behind the brier and willow cow'ring.