Ease and gentleness, rather than vehemence and vigour, characterise the songs of Tannahill. The sorrow of the lady in this song is moderate, and the rapture of the lover discreet. They would make a prudent and frugal pair.

AFTON WATER.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream—
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills!
Får mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,

As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream—
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

The pastoral feeling, which Burns infused into this sweet song, is in strict conformity with nature. The woodland primrose, the scented birk, the note of the blackbird, the call of the lapwing and the cushat, the flowery brae, and a fair heroine, are found now, as they were then, on the banks of this little stream. Time, which works such havoc with pastoral landscape, can take nothing away from Afton Water, unless it dries up the stream and strikes the ground with barrenness. Afton Water is in Ayrshire, and is one of the numerous streams which augment the Nith. The song was written in honour of Mrs. Dugald Stewart of Afton Lodge-an accomplished lady, and excellent lyric poetess; and the first person of any note who perceived and acknowledged the genius of Burns.

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.

E

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: every glen the mavis sang,

In

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.