THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.

The chorus of the old song, to the air of which this beautiful lyric is written, is curious :

This is nae my ain house,

I ken by the biggin o't

Bread an' cheese are the door checks,
An' pancakes the riggin' o't.-

Tune.-This is no my ain house.
CHORUS.

O this is no my aing lassie,
Fair though the lassie be;
O weel I ken my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her ee.

I SEE a form, I see a face,
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place:
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that 's in her ee.
O this is no, &c.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And ay it charms my very saul,
The kind love that's in her ee.
O this is no, &c.

A thief sae pawkieh is my Jean,
To steal a blink by a' unseen;
But glegi as light are lover's een,
When kind love is in the ee.
O this is no, &c.

It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks ;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her ee.

O this is no, &c.

g Own.

A Cunning.

• Quick.

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

Burns was a member of this corps. He composed the following verses to stimulate their patriotism; for though he deplored the corruptions in the administration of government at home, he was unwilling to exchange even them for foreign domination.

Tune.-Push about the jorum.

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the lounsk beware, Sir;
There's wooden walls upon our seas,
And volunteers on shore, Sir.
The Nith shall rin to Corsincon,'
And Criffelm sink in Solway,
Ere we permit a foreign foe
On British ground to rally!
O let us not like snarling tykes,"
In wrangling be divided;
Till slap came in an unco loon,
And wi' rungP decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;
For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted.

The kettle o' the kirk and state,
Perhaps a claut may fail in 't;
But deil a foreign tinker loon
Shall ever ca' a nail in 't;
Our fathers' blude the kettle bought,
And wha would dare to spoil it,
By Heaven the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it!

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch (his true-born brother)

Fellows, ragamuffins.

n Dogs.

A high hill at the source of the Nith m A high mountain at the mouth of the same river. o Strange fellow, a foreigner.

Cudgel.

Who'd set the mob aboon the throne,
May they be d-d together!
Who will not sing God save the king,'
Shall hang as high's the steeple;
But while we sing God save the king,'
We'll ne'er forget the people.

THE UNION.

At a meeting of a select party of gentlemen to celebrate the birthday of the lineal descendant of the Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate Prince Charles Stuart, Burns produced and sung the following song.

Tune. Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.
FAREWEEL to a' our Scottish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory!
Fareweel even to the Scottish name
Sae fam'd in martial story!
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,

To mark where England's province stands.
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue,
Through many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitors' wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valour's station,

But English gold has been our bane:
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

O would, or I had seen the day

That treason thus could sell us, My auld gray head had lien in clay, Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace! But pith and power, till my last hour I'll mak this declaration,

We're bought and sold for English gold:

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!

THE WINDING NITH.

The Gaelic air to which this song is adapted, is said to have been composed by Roderic Dall, an itinerant musician, formerly well known in the Highlands of Perthshire. He died about 1780, at a very advanced age.

Tune.-Robie Donna Gorach.

THE Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command: When shall I see that honour'd land,

That winding stream I love so dear? Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand For ever, ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom!
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton thro' the broom!
Tho' wand'ring, now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonnie banks and braes,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days

MY HEART IS SAIR.

Two additional verses were written for this song by the late Mr. R. A. Smith, which are now printed along with it in most collections. The new verses are not unworthy to accompany the

old.

Tune.-The Highland Watch's farewell.

My heart is sair, I dare na tell,
My heart is sair for somebody;

I could wake a winter night,
For the sake o' somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey! for somebody!
I could range the world around,
For the sake o' somebody.

Ye Powers that smile on virtuous love,
O sweetly smile on somebody!
Frae ilka danger keep him free,
And send me safe my somebody.
Oh-hon! for somebody!
Oh-hey for somebody!
I wad do what wad I not?
For the sake o' somebody!

DELIA-AN ODE.

This ode was sent to the publisher of the London Star-in which paper it first appeared, with the following letter:

'Mr. Printer,-If the productions of a simple ploughman can merit a place in the same paper with Sylvester Otway, and the other favourites of the Muses, who illuminate the Star with the lustre of genius, your insertion of the enclosed trifle will be succeeded by future communications from

Yours, &c. R. BURNS.'

Ellisland, near Dumfries, May 18, 1789.

FAIR the face of orient day,
Fair the tints of op'ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
More lovely far her beauty blows.
Sweet the lark's wild-warbling lay,
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear;
But, Delia, more delightful still
Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flow'r-enamour'd busy bee
The rosy banquet loves to sip;
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip;
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove;
O let me steal one liquid kiss;

For, oh! my soul is parch'd my love!

The assumed name of a Mr. Oswald, an officer in the army, who frequently contributed verses to the Star newspaper.