MY SHEEP I NEGLECTED.

My sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of
my youth I forsook :
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove;
Ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.
But what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow?

Through regions remote in vain do I rove,
And bid the wide world secure me from love.
Ah, fool! to imagine that aught could subdue
A love so well founded, a passion so true!
Ah, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more!

Alas, 'tis too late at thy fate to repine!
Poor shepherd, Amynta no more can be thine!
Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain,
The moments neglected return not again.
Ah, what had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta, why broke I my vow?

Sir Gilbert Elliot, ancestor of the present Lord Minto, was the author of this very beautiful pastoral;

VOL. III.

L

and we have the authority of no mean judge for saying that the poetical mantle of Sir Gilbert has descended to his family. It is among the last and best efforts of the Muse of the sheep-pipe and crook, and possesses more nature than commonly falls to the lot of those elegant and affected songs, which awake a Sicilian rather than a Scottish echo.

The old words, which were sung to the tune of " My apron, dearie," could hardly suggest so sweet and so delicate a song. I will try to pick out a passable verse as a specimen of the old song, which bestowed a name on this popular air :

O, had I ta'en counsel of father or mother,
Or had I advised with sister or brother!
But a saft and a young thing, and easy to woo,

It makes me cry out, my apron, now.

My apron, deary, my apron now,

The strings are short of my apron, now.

A saft thing, a young thing, and easy to woo,
It makes me cry out, my apron, now.

I am not even certain that these words, old as they are, and bearing the stamp of a ruder age, are the oldest which were sung to the air. I have heard a song of still ruder rhyme, and of equal freedom; and I think I can find as much of it as may enable the reader to judge, without deeply offending against delicacy:

Low, low down in yon meadow so green,

I met wi' my laddie at morning and e'en

Till my stays grew strait-wadna meet by a span,
Sae I went to my laddie and tauld him than.

The conversation which ensues is too confidential for quotation.

MY DEARIE IF THOU DIE.

Love never more shall give me pain,
My fancy's fix'd on thee,

Nor ever maid my heart shall gain,
My Peggy, if thou die.

Thy beauty doth such pleasure give,

Thy love's so true to me,
Without thee I can never live,
My dearie if thou die.

If fate shall tear thee from my breast,
How shall I lonely stray:

In dreary dreams the night I'll waste,
In sighs, the silent day.

I ne'er can so much virtue find,
Nor such perfection see ;

Then I'll renounce all womankind,
My Peggy, after thee.

No new-blown beauty fires my heart
With Cupid's raving rage;

But thine, which can such sweets impart,

Must all the world engage.

'Twas this, that like the morning sun,

Gave joy and life to me;

And when its destin'd day is done,

Ye

With Peggy let me die.

powers that smile on virtuous love,
And in such pleasure share;

You who its faithful flames approve,
With pity view the fair:

Restore my Peggy's wonted charms,

Those charms so dear to me!

Oh! never rob them from these arms-
I'm lost if Peggy die.

When Crawford wrote these words, it is not certain that he knew more of the old song which gave the name to his own than the single line which has descended to the present times, "My dearie an thou die." Burns briefly remarks, " Another beautiful song of Crawford's." Cupid might have been spared from the third verse, and the flames of love from the fourth: but he was

no regular dealer in darts and flames, like the poets of his time-his failings were more in the pastoral way, and we have few lyrics of a purer or more natural or more graceful character, than those which he composed.

FOR EVER, FORTUNE, WILT THOU PROVE.

For ever, Fortune, wilt thou prové
An unrelenting foe to love?

And when we meet a mutual heart
Come in between and bid us part?
Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish and wish the soul away,
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of love is gone?

But busy busy still art thou

To bind the loveless, joyless vow-
The heart from pleasure to delude,
And join the gentle to the rude.
For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other blessings I resign-

Make but the dear Amanda mine.

This beautiful complaint against the caprice of fortune