MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my

ain thing,

Saw ye my true love down on yon lea—

Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,

Sought she the burnie where flowers the hawtree? Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e:

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your
ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,

Down by the burnie where flowers the hawtree:
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, modest her nature,

She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee :
Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.

It was then your Mary, she's frae Castle-cary,

It was then your true love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is and modest her nature,

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:

Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorn

ing,

Defend ye fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie.

Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling—

Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee,
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,
Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e.
Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?

O Jamie forgie me, your heart's constant to me,
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.

Mary of Castle-cary" has been admired as one of our first-rate songs. But no song that Hector Macneill ever wrote has any right to such a distinction. Still it is one of the author's best songs: the story is indeed improbable; but the language is happy, and the narrative dramatic. I wish the poet had called down the cloud of night to assist the indiscreet maiden in her deception. The quick eye and the acute ear of love are too keen not to have penetrated through the disguise. Yet I like much the swaggering presumption of the lass of Castlecary, and the honourable disbelief and passion of her admirer.

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE?

Wilt thou be my dearie?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,

Wilt thou let me cheer thee?

By the treasure of

my soul,

The old song of the "Sutor's daughter," which lends its air to these beautiful verses, gave no other aid to the poet. By many of the admirers of the old songs, Burns has been accused of misleading the current of ancient verse into a channel of his own-of turning the mirthful into the serious, and the gay into the pathetic. If

what he found woollen he converted into silk; if to a velvet sleeve he added a velvet garment; and if he plaited the tresses and lowered the nether garments of the antique Scottish Muse, he rendered an acceptable service to his country. He has done all this, and much

more.

HIGHLAND MARY.

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfald her robes,

And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,

As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom !

The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,

Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But Oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And closed for ay the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mould'ring now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly! 1

But still within my bosom's core,

Shall live my Highland Mary.

When Burns received an extensive order for songs for the work of Thomson, he seems to have laid all his earlier affections, all his domestic love, and all the beauty in the district under contribution for rosie cheeks, blue eyes, shining tresses, and beautiful shapes. His choice was sometimes happy, and often injudicious: some of his heroines were well worthy of his Muse; others cannot be remembered without lamenting the infirmity of the poet's taste: their names I am willing to forget; for who would wish to know to what prostituted shape a Canova or a Chantrey are indebted for the exquisite