Though mine were the station o' loftiest grandeur,
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain,
And reckon as naething the height o' its splendour,
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flow'r o' Dumblane.

There is less originality in the "Flower of Dumblane" than in most of Tannahill's songs. There is little said but what has been said as well before: the bloom of the brier, the bud of the birk, the song of the mavis, are all sweet things, but as common to lyric poetry as they are to nature.

I WINNA GANG BACK.

I winna gang back to my mammy again,
I'll never gae back to my mammy again;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.

Young Johnie came down i' the gloamin' to woo,
Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bonnet sae blue:
O come awa' lassie, ne'er let mammy ken!
An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen.

He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his dow,
An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou';
While I fell on his bosom, heart-flichter'd an' fain,
An' sigh'd out, O Johnie, I'll aye be your ain!

Some lassies will talk to the lads wi' their e'e,
Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree;
Wi' Johnie I stood upon nae stappin-stane;
Sae I'll never gang back to my mammy again.

For mony lang year, sin' I play'd on the lea,
My mammy was kind as a mither could be;
I've held by her apron these aught years an' ten,
But I'll never gang back to my mammy again.

The natural beauty and buoyancy of this little song is impaired by an air of affectation and childishness which Gall, as well as Macneill, mistook for the most engaging and endearing simplicity and singleness of heart. A young lady of eighteen, ambitious of domestic rule, and of becoming a wife and mother, would never prattle of her lover in this light-headed manner.

O TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE.

If doughty deeds my lady please,
Right soon I'll mount my steed;

And strong his arm, and fast his seat,

That bears frae me the meed.

I'll wear thy colours in my cap,
Thy picture in my heart;

And he that bends not to thine eye
Shall rue it to his smart.

Then tell me how to woo thee, love;

O tell me how to woo thee!
For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take,
Though ne'er another trow me.

If gay attire delight thine eye,
I'll dight me in array ;

I'll tend thy chamber door all night,
And squire thee all the day.
If sweetest sounds can win thy ear,
These sounds I'll strive to catch;
Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysel',
That voice that nane can match.

But if fond love thy heart can gain,
I never broke a vow;

Nae maiden lays her skaith to me;
I never lov'd but

For

you.

you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue;

The late Mr. Graham of Gartmore wrote this elegant and chivalrous song. The chorus is the echo of a fragment of old verse, and might be omitted, like many other supplemental rhymes of the same nature which are scattered among our lyrics, without offering any injury to the

song.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer:
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the highlands, farewell to the north,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth!
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow!
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below!
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods!
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!
My heart's in the highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the highlands a-chasing the deer:
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the highlands, wherever I go.

The first half stanza of this song is old, the rest is the work of Burns. Of the old song I am sorry I can give no larger specimen. It was the lamentation, I understand, of a highland lady who, wedded to some churlish lowland lord, languished for her green glens, her boundless hills, and her sylvan liberty.

O GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE.

O gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,

Into its bonnie breast to fa'!
Oh, there beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on its silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phœbus' light.

O were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing:
How I wad mourn, when it was torn

By autumn wild, and winter rude!
But I wád sing on wanton wing,

When youthfu' May its bloom renew❜d.

The first eight lines of this song are very old, very beautiful, and very generally admired. The succeeding eight lines are by Burns; but they fail in continuing without abatement the exquisite original feeling and delicacy of the old. The poet, after expressing his admiration of the fragment, says, "I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain: after balancing myself for a musing of five minutes on the hind legs of my