Hae I a joy? it's a' her ain!

United still her heart and mine;

They're like the woodbine round the tree,

That's twined till death shall them disjoin.

The author of this beautiful song was the friend and correspondent of Robert Burns. In his "Epistle to J. Lapraik, an old Scottish bard," dated April 1st, 1785, Burns pays his predecessor the following fine compliment:

"Lapraik," says Burns, " was a very worthy facetious old fellow, late of Dalfram near Muirkirk, which little property he was obliged to sell in consequence of some connexion as security for some persons concerned in that villanous bubble,' the Ayr Bank.' He has often told me that he composed this song one day when his wife had been fretting over their misfortunes." Lapraik died in 1807.

f

'Twas within a mile of Edinburgh town,

In the rosy time of the year;

Sweet flowers bloom'd, and the grass was down,

And each shepherd woo'd his dear.

Bonnie Jocky, blythe and gay,

Kiss'd sweet Jenny making hay:

The lassie blush'd, and frowning cried, "No, no, it will not do; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buckle to."

Jocky was a wag that never would wed,

Though long he had follow'd the lass: Contented she earn'd and eat her brown bread,

And merrily turn'd up the grass.

Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,

Won her heart right merrily:

Yet still she blush'd, and frowning cried, "No, no, it will not do; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buckle to."

But when he vow'd he would make her his bride,

Though his flocks and herds were not few,

She gave him her hand, and a kiss beside,
And vow'd she'd for ever be true.

Bonnie Jocky, blythe and free,

Won her heart right merrily:

At church she no more frowning cried, "No, no, it will not do ; I cannot, cannot, wonnot, wonnot, mannot buckle to."

Modernised from a song of Tom D'Urfey. The air to which the song is now usually sung is of more recent origin than the words, having been the compositio of Mr. Hook, father of the late Theodore Hook the novelist. Mr. Hook, besides composing many beautiful English melodies, wrote several in imitation of the Scottish

manner.

THOU ART GANE AWA'.

ANONYMOUS. From " Johnson's Museum," 1787. To the tune of " Haud awa' frae me, Donald."

THOU art gane awa', thou art gane awa',
Thou art gane awa' frae me, Mary;
Nor friends nor I could make thee stay-
Thou hast cheated them and mê, Mary.
Until this hour I never thought

That aught could alter thee, Mary ;
Thou art still the mistress of my heart,
Think what you will of me, Mary.

Whate'er he said or might pretend

That stole the heart of thine, Mary,
True love, I'm sure, was ne'er his end,
Or nae sic love as mine, Mary.
I spoke sincere, nor flatter'd much,
Had no unworthy thoughts, Mary;
Ambition, wealth, nor naething such,
No, I loved only thee, Mary.

Though you've been false, yet while I live
I'll lo'e nae maid but thee, Mary;

Let friends forget, as I forgive

Thy wrongs to them and me, Mary.
So then, farewell! of this be sure,
Since you've been false to me, Mary,
For all the world I'd not endure

Half what I've done for thee, Mary.

THE TEARS I SHED MUST EVER FALL.

MRS. DUGALD STEWART, wife of the philosopher. From "Johnson's Museum," 1792.

THE tears I shed must ever fall,

I mourn not for an absent swain ;
For thoughts may past delights recall,
And parted lovers meet again.
I weep not for the silent dead,-

Their toils are past, their sorrows o'er ;
And those they loved their steps shall tread,
And death shall join to part no more.

Though boundless oceans roll'd between,
If certain that his death is near,
A conscious transport glads each scene,
Soft is the sigh and sweet the tear.
E'en when by death's cold hand removed,
We mourn the tenant of the tomb :
To think that e'en in death he loved,
Can gild the horrors of the gloom.

But bitter, bitter are the tears

Of her who slighted love bewails;
No hope her dreary prospect cheers,
No pleasing melancholy hails.
Hers are the pangs of wounded pride,
Of blasted hope, of wither'd joy;

The flattering veil is rent aside,

The flame of love burns to destroy.

In vain does memory renew

The hours once tinged in transport's dye;

The sad reverse soon starts to view,

And turns the past to agony. E'en time itself despairs to cure

Those pangs to every feeling due: Ungenerous youth, thy boast how poor, To win a heart and break it too!

No cold approach, no alter'd mien,

Just what would make suspicion start; No pause the dire extremes between,

He made me blest-and broke my heart. From hope, the wretched's anchor, torn; Neglected and neglecting all, Friendless, forsaken, and forlorn, The tears I shed must ever fall.