THE BOATIE ROWS.

O WEEL may the boatie row,
And better may she speed;

And liefome may the boatie row,
That wins the bairns' bread;

The boatie rows, the boatie rows
The boatie rows indeed;

And weel may the boatie row,
That wins my bairns' bread.

O weel may the boatie row,
That fills a heavy creel,

And cleads us a' frae head to feet,
And buys our pottage meal;

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows indeed,

And happy be the lot of a',

That wish the boatie speed.

When Jamie vow'd he wou'd be mine; And wan frae me my heart,

O muckle lighter grew my creel,

He fwore we'd never part;

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel,

And muckle lighter is the load

When love bears up the crecl.

My kurtch I put upon my head,
And drefs'd my fel' fu' braw,

1 trow my heart was douf an' wae,
When Jamie gaed awa';

But weel may the boatie row,
And lucky be her part;

And lightsome be the laffie's care,

That yields an honest heart.

When Sawney, Jock, an' Janetie,

Are up and gotten lear;

They'll help to gar the boatie row,

And lighten a' our care.

The boatie rows, the boatie rows,

The boatie rows fu' weel,

And lightfome be her heart that bears,

The Murlain, and the creel.

And when wi' age we're worn down,

And hirpling round the door,

They'll row to keep us dry and warm, As we did them before;

Then weel may the boatie row,

She wins the bairns' bread;
And happy be the lot o' a',

That with the boatie speed.

THE NEAT LITTLE COTTAGE..

My mam is no more, and my dad's in his grave,
Little orphans are fister and 1, sadly poor,
Industry our wealth, and no dwelling we have,
But yon neat little cottage that fands on the moor.

The lark's early fong does to labour invite,
Contented we just keep the wolf from the door,
And Phœbus retiring, trip home with delight,
To our neat little cottage that stands on the moor.

Our meals are but homely, mirth sweetens the cheer,
Affection's our inmate, the guest we adore,
And heart-eafe and health, make a palace appear,
Of our neat little cottage that stands on the moor.

OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIN' CAN BLAW.

BURNS.

Of a' the airts the win' can blaw, I dearly like the west; For there the bonny laffie lives, the lafs that I lo'e best; 'Tho' wild woods grow, an' rivers row, wi' mony a hill between,

Baith day an' night my fancy's flight is ever wi' my Jean.

E

I fee her in the dewy flowers, fae lovely, fweet an' fair, I hear her voice in ilka bird, wi' mufic charm the air, 'There's not a bonny flower that springs, by fountain, fhaw,

or green,

Nor yet a bonny bird that fings, but minds me o' my Jean.

Upon the banks of flowing Clyde the laffes bufk them braw, But when their beft they ha'e put on, my Jenny dings them a';

In hamely weeds fhe far exceeds the fairest of the town, Baith fage an' gay confefs it fae, tho' drefs'd in ruftic gown,

The gamefome lamb, that fucks the dam, mair harmless canna be,

She has nac fau't (if fic we ca't) except her love for me, The fparkling dew, of clearest hew, is like her fhining een, In fhape an' air wha can compare, wi' my sweet lovely Jean.

O blaw ye weftlin' win's blaw faft, amang the leafy trees, Wi' gentle breath frae muir an' dale bring hame the laden bees;

An' bring the lassie back to me that's ay fae neat an' clean, Ac' blink o' her wad banifh care, fae charming is my Jean.

What fighs an' vows amang the knowes, ha'e past atween

us twa,

How fain to meet, how wae to part, that day fhe gade awa The pow'rs aboon can only ken, to whom the heart is seen, That nane can be fac dear to me as my fweet lovely Jean.

ALONE BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON.

THE day is departed, and round from the cloud,
The moon in her beauty appears;
The voice of the nightingale warbles aloud,
The mufic of love in our ears:
Maria appear! now the feafon fo fweet,
While the beat of the heart is in tune,
The time is fo tender for lovers to meet,
Alone by the light of the moon.

I cannot, when prefent, unfold what I feel;
I figh-can a lover do more;

Her name to the fhepherds I never reveal,
Yet I think of her all the day o'er.
Maria, my love, do you long for the grove,
Do you figh for an interview foon;

Does e'er a kind thought run on me as you rove,
Alone by the light of the moon.

Your name from the fhepherds, whenever I hear,

My bofom is all in a glow;

Your voice, when it vibrates fo fweet thro' mine ear, My heart thrills-my eyes overflow.