WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.
0, WILLIE brew'd a peck o'maut,

And Rob and Allan cam to pree:
Three blither bearts, that lee-lang night,

Ye wad na find in Christendie.
· We are na fou, we're nae that fou,

But just a drappie in our e'e;
The cock may craw, the day may daw,

And ay we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,

Three merry boys I trow are we;
And monie a night we've merry been,
And monie mae we hope to be!

We are na fou, &c.
It is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But, by my sooth, she'll wait a wee!

We are na fou, 8c.
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,

A cuckold, coward loun is he!
Wha last beside his chair shall fa',
He is the king amang us three!

We are na fou, &c.

* This song is a well known production of Burns's. He tells us that the air was composed by his friend Mr. ALLAN MASTERTON, and adds, “the occasion of it was this:-Mr. WM. Nicol, of the High School, Edinburgh, during the autumn vacation, being at Moffat, honest ALLAN, who was at that time on a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol a visit.We had such a joyous meeting, that Mr. MASTERTON and I agreed, each in our own way, that we should celebrate the business.”Accordingly the one produced the words, the other the music.

THE WAUKING O' THE FAULD. My Peggy is a young thing,

Just enter'd in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay:

My Peggy is a young thing,

And I'm nae very auld,
Yet weel I like to meet her at

The wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

Whene'er I whisper love,
That I look down on a' the town,
That I look down upon a crown:
My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blythe and bauld,
And naething gies me sic delight,

As wauking o' the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly,

When on my pipe I play;
By a' the rest it is confest,
By a' the rest that she sings best:

My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tald,
Wi' innocence, the wale of sense,

At wauking o' the fauld.

BLYTHE WAS SHE.
TUNE_" Andro and his cutty gun."
Blythe, blythe and merry was she,

Blythe was she but and ben:
Blythe by the banks of Ern,

And blythe in Glenturit glen.
By Ochtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;
But Phemie was a bonnier lass
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.

Blythe, 8c.
Her looks were like a flower in May,

Her smile was like a simmer morn;
She tripped by the banks o' Ern,
As light's a bird upon a thorn.

Blythe, fc.

The Highland hills I've wander'd wide,

And o'er the Lowlands I hae been;
But Phemie was the blythest lass,
That ever trod the dewy green. *

Blythe, fc.

* “I composed these verses while I stayed at Ochtertyre with Sir William MURRAY.-The lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the well-known toast, Miss EuPHEMIA MURRAY of Lentrose, who was called, and very justly, The Flower of Strathmore." -Burns.

FAREWELL TO LOCHABER. FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I hae monie days been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir; Tho' borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.

Tho' hurricanes rise,, and raise ev'ry wind,
They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;
Tho' loudest of thunders on louder waves roar,
That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.
To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pain'd;
But by ease that's inglorious no fame can be gain'd;
And beauty and love's the reward of the brave;
And I maun deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse;
Since honour commands me, how can I refuse?
Without it, I ne'er can have merit for thee,
And losing thy favour, I'd better not be.
I gae, then, my lass, to win glory and fame,
And if I should chance to come gloriously hame,
I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,
And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.

THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS.

TUNE_" Seventh of November."
The day returns, my bosom burns,

The blissful day we twa did meet;
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd,

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet.

Than a' the pride that loads the tide,

And crosses o'er the sultry line;
Than kingly robes, than crowns and globes,

Heaven gave me more—it made thee mine.

While day and night can bring delight,

Or nature aught of pleasure give;
While joys above, my mind can move,

For thee, and thee alone, I live!
When that grim foe of life below

Comes in between to make us.part;
The iron hand that breaks our band,

It breaks my bliss—it breaks my heart. *

* It may be said of almost all Burns's songs, that they were called forth by some particular incident or occurrence connected with the history of his own life, or by those various feel. ings of love, gratitude, and veneration, excited in his mind by the contemplation of human worth and excellence. In the circle of his own friends, and among those whom he casually encountered, in his intercourse with the world, his discerning mind discovered many of those virtues and graces which give dignity to, and consecrate, the charms of song; and consequently, his muse was under the less necessity of wandering into the regions of fancy in quest of subjects to celebrate and immortalize. That the song here given, owes its origin to the predominance of the above-mentioned feelings, is clear from the following note concerning it by the author. “ I composed this song out of compliment to one of the happiest and worthiest married couples in the world, ROBERT RIDDEL, Esq. of Glenriddel, and his lady. At their fire-side I have enjoyed more pleasant evenings than at all the houses of fashionable people in this country put together ; and to their kindness and hospitality I am indebted for many of the happiest hours of my life.”