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That could ill tongues abuse thy fame,

Thy beauty can make large amends:
Or if I durst profanely try

Thy beauty's pow'rful charms t' upbraid,
Thy virtue well might give the lie,

Nor call thy beauty to its aid.

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With all her charms has deck'd thy face,
And Pallas, with unusual care,

Bids wisdom heighten every grace. A
Who can the double pain endure?

Or who must not resign the field? A
To thee, celestial maid, secure

With Cupid's bow, and Pallas' shield?

If then to thee such pow'r is given,
Let not a wretch in torment live,
But smile, and learn to copy Heaven,
Since we must sin ere it forgive.
Yet pitying Heaven not only does
Forgive th' offender and th' offence,
But even itself appeas'd bestows,

As the reward of penitence.

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None of our early lyric poets pays such graceful and elegant compliments to the ladies as the author of this song, Hamilton of Bangour. The last verse has been often imitated, and often plundered. Mrs. S. H. was a fortunate lady in taking offence at something which the poet had said to her, since it was atoned for by such a

beautiful and courtly apology. Tradition has neglected to tell us her name, but it is likely she was a Hamilton. I see by the copy which Allan Ramsay published, that the words were written for an old air which bore the name of a song, long since lost, called " Halloween." It is in this way that we are made acquainted with the names of many of our ancient lyrics.

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AS SYLVIA IN A FOREST LAY.

As Sylvia in a forest lay,

To vent her woe alone;

Her swain Sylvander came that way,

And heard her dying moan:
Ah! is my love, she said, to you

So worthless and so vain?
Why is your wonted fondness now

Converted to disdain?

You vow'd the light should darkness turn,

Ere you'd forget your love;

In shades now may creation mourn,

Since you unfaithful prove.

Was it for this I credit gave

To ev'ry oath you swore?

But ah! it seems they most deceive

Who most our charms adore.

'Tis plain your drift was all deceit,
The practice of mankind:

Alas! I see it, but too late,
My love had made me blind.
For you, delighted I could die:
But oh! with grief I'm fill'd,
To think that credulous, constant, I
Should by yourself be kill'd.

This said all breathless, sick, and pale,

Her head upon her hand,
She found her vital spirits fail,

And senses at a stand.
Sylvander then began to melt:
But ere the word was given,
The heavy hand of death she felt,

And sigh'd her soul to heaven.

These verses are by David Mallet, and are copied from Ramsay's collection. They have never been very popular, though Oswald assisted them with his music: indeed the peasantry, to whose fondness for song we owe many of our most admired compositions, would hesitate to share their sympathy with Sylvia and Sylvander. Something of the author of William and Margaret may be observed in the second verse; but no other part equals the delicacy and pathos of that popular composition. Allan Ramsay printed them to the tune of Pinky House, or Rothes's Lament.

WERE NA MY HEART LIGHT I WAD DIE.

There was ance a May, and she lo'ed nae men,
She biggit her bonnie bower down in yon glen;
But now she cries dool and weel-a-day,
Come down the green gate, and come here away.

When bonnie young Johnie came over the sea,
He vow'd he saw naething sae lovely as me;
He gae me gowd rings, and mony braw things-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

His wee wilfu' tittie she loved na me;

I was taller, and twice as bonnie as she;

She raised sic a pother 'tween him and his mother,
That were na my heart light I wad die.

The day it was set for the bridal to be,

The wife took a dwam and lay down to die;

She main'd and she grain'd, wi' fause dolour and pain, Till he vow'd that he never would see me again.

His kindred sought ane of a higher degree-
Said, Wad he wed ane that was landless, like me?
Albeit I was bonnie, I was nae worth Johnie-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

They said I had neither a cow nor calf,

Nor dribbles o' drink coming through the draff,

Nor pickles o' meal running frae the mill ee

And were na my heart light I wad die.

My lover he met me ance on the lea,

His tittie was wi' him, and hame ran she;

His mither came out wi' a shriek and a shout-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

His bonnet stood then fu' fair on his brow-
His auld ane look'd better than mony ane's new;
But now he lets 't wear ony way it will hing,
And casts himself dowie upon the corn bing.

And now he gaes daunering about the dykes,
And a' he dow do is to hound the tykes;
The live-lang night he ne'er steeks his ee-
And were na my heart light I wad die.

O were we young now as we ance hae been,
We should hae been galloping down on yon green,
And linking it o'er the lily-white lea→ ·

And were na my heart light I wad die.

To Lady Grissell Baillie, daughter of the Earl of Marchmont, we owe this popular song; but I have never heard from what impulse, whether of truth or speculation, we obtained it. It is very original, very characteristic, and very unequal. I imagine the title is old, but I have never seen any verses which seemed to correspond with the sentiment. It was printed in Allan

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