HER FLOWING LOCKS.

Her flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,

And round that neck entwine her!
Her lips are roses wet wi' dew!
O, what a feast, her bonnie mou!
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,

A crimson still diviner!

These are eight beautiful lines. They are too few to sing, too good to cast away, and too peculiar and happy ever to be eked out by a hand inferior to the hand of their author, Robert Burns. They will long continue as a fragment.

FAREWELL TO AYRSHIRE.

*. Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, Scenes that former thoughts renew; Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,

Now a sad and last adieu.

Bonnie Doon, sae sweet at gloamin,
Fare thee weel before I gang,

Bonnie Doon, whare, early roaming,
First I wove the rustic sang.

VOL. IV.

Bowers, adieu! where love decoying
First enthrall'd this heart o' mine;
There the saftest sweets enjoying,

Sweets that memory ne'er shall tine:
Friends, so near my bosom ever,
Ye hae render'd moments dear;
But, alas! when forced to sever,
Then the stroke, oh! how severe !

Friends, that parting tear reserve it,
Though 'tis doubly dear to me;
Could I think I did deserve it,
How much happier would I be.
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Scenes that former thoughts renew;
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure,
Now a sad and last adieu!

When it first ap

Richard Gall wrote this song. peared it was called Burns's Farewell to Ayrshire, and passed for some time as the production of the silent poet. This, indeed, was doubted by many, for it was not in such a feeble and unimpassioned way that Burns recalled and dwelt upon the scenes of his early youth. But sweetness of versification and natural feeling will always obtain notice, and sometimes keep it, and this song has done both. It was first published in Johnson's Musical Museum.

THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE.

'Twas even-the dewy fields were green, On every blade the pearls hang;

The Zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
In every glen the mavis sang,

All nature listening seem'd the while, Except where green-wood echoes rang, Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle.

With careless step I onward stray'd,
My heart rejoiced in nature's joy,
When musing in a lonely glade

A maiden fair I chanced to spy;
Her look was like the morning's eye,
Her air like nature's vernal smile;
Perfection whisper'd, passing by,

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

Fair is the morn in flowery May,

And sweet is night in Autumn mild,

When roving thro' the garden gay,
Or wandering in the lonely wild:
But woman, nature's darling child!
There all her charms she does compile ;
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd

By the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Though shelter'd in the lowliest shed
That ever rose in Scotland's plain!
Through weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain

The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

The lady, in whose praise this fine song was written, was Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle, in Ayrshire. Burns, during one of his fits of solitary musing on the banks of his native stream, met with this west-country beauty among the woods, and her charms occasioned the song, which he enclosed to her in a letter written with much romantic respect and delicacy. The lass of Ballochmyle, like many other maidens on whom the folly of poets has lavished lasting verse, was cold or insensible, and Burns had not the fortitude to be silent-he complained of her neglect. Dr. Currie excuses the lady with singular infelicity: "Her modesty might prevent

her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet." I hope Miss Alexander listened to the doctor's defence as she did to the poet's strains, with "silent modesty and dignified reserve.”

THE STOWN GLANCE O' KINDNESS.

"Twasna her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin;

Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing;

'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ;
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter—
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter!

To a lady with blue eyes and flaxen ringlets, Burns seems largely indebted for his inspiration in song; and I am afraid that the poet persisted in pouring out his praise long after the lady had no other charm than personal attractions left. One of the flaxen-tressed heroines of Burns contrived to cast suspicion upon her chastity