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THE LAMMIE.
Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?
Whar hae ye been a' day, my boy Tammy?

I've been by burn and flow'ry brae,
Meadow green and mountain grey,
Courting o' this young thing,

Just come frae her mammy.
And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?

I gat her down in yonder howe,
Smiling on a broomy knowe,
Herding ae wee lamb and ewe

For her poor mammy.
What said ye to the bonnie bairn, my boy Tammy?

I prais'd her een, sae lovely blue,
Her dimpled cheek, and cherry mou;
I pree'd it aft, as ye may true!-

She said, she'd tell her mammy.
I held her to my beating heart, my young, my smiling

Lammie!

queen of Scots, told me that the songs marked C. in the Teatable, were the composition of a Mr. CRAWFORD, of the house of Achnames, who was afterwards unfortunately drowned coming from France. As TYTLER was most intimately acquainted with ALLAN Ramsay, I think the anecdote may be depended on. Of consequence, the beautiful song of Tweedside is Mr. CrawFORD's, and indeed does great 'honour to his poetical talents. He was a ROBERT CRAWFORD; the Mary he celebrates, was a MARY STEWART, of the Castlemilk family, afterwards married to a Mr. John Ritchie.” In opposition to the above, however, Mr. WALTER Scott, in a note to his Marmion, informs us that

Tweedside was composed in honour of a Miss MARY LILIAS Scott, of the Harden family,-a lady who has been also celebrated as the Flower of Yarrow.

I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I've walth o'plenishen and geer;
Ye'se get it a' war't ten times mair,

Gin ye will leave your mammy.
The smile gade aff her bonnie face-I maun na leave

my mammy;
She's gi'en me meat, she's gi'en me claise,
She's been my comfort a' my days:-
My father's death brought monie waes-

I canna leave my mammy.
We'll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-

hearted Lammie !
We'll gie her meat, we'll gie her claise,
We'll be her comfort a' her days.
The wee thing gie's her hand, and says,

There! gang and ask my mammy. -.
Has she been to kirk wi' thee, my boy Tammy?

She has been to kirk wi' me,
And the tear was in her ee,-
But O! she's but a young thing,

Just come frae her mammy.

TODLEN BUTT, AND TODLEN BEN.
WHEN I've a saxpence under my thum,
Then I'll get credit in ilka town:
But ay when I'm poor they bid me gang by;
0! poverty parts good company.

Todlen hame, todlen hame,
Cou'dna my love come todlen hame?

Fair-fa' the gudewife, and send her good sale,
She gi'es us white bannocks to drink her ale,

Syne if that her tippenny chance to be sma',
We'll take a good scour o't, and ca't awa.

Todlen hame, todien hame,
As round as a neep come todlen hame.

My kimmer and I lay down to sleep,
Witwa pint-stoups at our bed feet ;
And ay when we waken'd, we drank them dry:
What think ye o' my wee kimmer and I?

Todlen butt, and todlen ben,
Sae round as my love comes todlen hame.

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Saw ye my wee thing? Saw ye mine ain thing?

Saw ye my true love down on yon lea?
Cross'd she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin?

Sought she the burnie whar flow'rs the haw tree?

• There is a remark of BURNS's on this song, upon which there may exist some diversity of opinion. He says, “ it is perhaps the first bottle song that ever was composed;” meaning undoubtedly that it is the first, not in point of time, but in point of merit. Let this, however, be as it may, it is certain there are thousands of sterling, honest hearts, in this and every other country, who have often experienced the force and truth of one line of it in particular "0! poverty parts good company."

Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white;

Dark is the blue o her saft rolling ee;
Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:-

Whar could my wee thing wander frae me?
I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,

Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea; But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloamin,

Down by the burnie whar flow'rs the haw tree. Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white:

Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling ee;
Red ware her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:

Sweet ware the kisses that she ga’e to me!

It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing,

It was na my true love ye met by the tree: Proud is her leel heart! modest her nature!

She never loo'd onie, till ance she loo'd me. Her name it is Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary:

Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee: Fair as your face is, war't fifty times fairer,

Young bragger, she ne'er would gie kisses to thee! It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary;

It was then your true love I met by the tree: Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,

Sweet ware the kisses that she ga’e to me. Sair gloom'd his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew,

Wild flash'd the fire frae his red rolling ee! Ye's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your

scorping: Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly ye lie. Awa wi' beguiling, cried the youth, smiling.“

Aff went the bonnet; the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing,

Fair stood the lov'd maid wi’ the dark rolling ee!

Is it my wee thing! is it mine ain thing!

Is it my true love here that I see! O Jamie, forgie me; your heart's constant to me;

I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!

THE BANKS O' GLAIZART.

TUNE_" Locheroch Side."
Now flow'ry summer comes again,
And decks my native, bonnie plain,
While feather'd warblers swell the strain,

Aroun' the banks o' Glaizart.
Our woody, wild, romantic glens,
Our flow'ry groves, and fairie dens,
Form heart-enliv’ning, charming scenes,

Aroun' the banks o’ Glaizart.
In childhood's days, sweet dawn o'life,
Unknown to sorrow, care, and strife,
Aft hae 1 rov'd 'mid pleasures rife,

Upon thy banks, sweet Glaizart.
There too, fair Jeanie, maid o'glee,
In youthfu’ days engag'd my e'e,
And first her mou I blythe did prie,

Upon thy banks, sweet Glaizart. ,
O charming are the tow'ring Fells,
Whare rural pleasure kindly dwells;
And lovely are the blooming belles,

That grace thy banks, sweet Glaizart.
Here Nature's han', in days o'yore,
That after-swains might her adore,
Bequeath'd the peerless gifts, in store,

That grace thy banks, sweet Glaizart:
Yes, wi' that bonnie Clachan Glen,
Whare birdies chant the artless strain,
Her warks she crown'd--and mark'd her ain

The bonnie banks o' Glaizart.

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