THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

And mony a widow mourning;

I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;

I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,

Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood

That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang; Take pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever:
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,

Ye freely shall partake it;

That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose—
Syne pale like ony lily

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still

True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted.

Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,

A mailen plenish'd fairly;

And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize;
The sodger's wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.

"The Poor and Honest Sodger" laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's "Exile of Erin" and "Wounded Hussar" were published. Dumfries, which sent so many of its sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port; and the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish this exquisite and useful song, with the song of "Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled," "The Song of Death," and "Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,"all lyrics which infuse a love of country and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was remembered by the rich to his prejudice-his imperishable lyrics were rewarded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow-peasants.

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

The Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea;
Nae lavrock sang on hillock green,

But nature sicken'd on the e'e;
Through faded groves Maria sang,

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while;
And ay the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle!

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
Again ye'll charm the vocal air;

But here, alas! for me nae mair

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;
Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle!

Burns lamented the departure of the amiable family of the Whitefords from Ballochmyle, in these two beautiful verses. Catrine is the seat of Dugald Stewart, Esq. and Ballochmyle is the residence of Boyd Alexander, Esq. To the charms of an Alexander we owe the "Lass of Ballochmyle;" and I have heard it said, that to the coldness of the heroine of that exquisite song we

are indebted for the present lyric. He perhaps sought to set off the beauty and courtesy of one lady against the charms and coldness of another.

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

The day returns, my bosom burns,
The blissful day we twa did meet;
Though winter wild in tempest toil'd,
Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.
Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line;

Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,
Heaven gave me more-it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,
Or nature aught of pleasure give;
While joys above my mind can move,
For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us part,
The iron hand that breaks our band,

It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart.

Burns wrote this song in compliment to Robert Riddell of Glenriddell, and his lady. The poet was

VOL. IV.

I