Come while the blossom 's on the broom, And heather bells sae bonnie bloom; Come let us be the happiest twa On a' the braes o' Gallowa'!

THE HILLS OF THE HIGHLANDS.

TUNE--_"Ewe Bughts, Marion."_

Will ye go to the Highlan's, my Mary, And visit our haughs and our glens?

There 's beauty 'mang hills o' the Highlan's, That la.s.sie i' th' Lowlands ne'er kens.

'Tis true we 've few cowslips or roses, Nae lilies grow wild on the lea; But the heather its sweet scent discloses, And the daisy 's as sweet to the e'e.

See yon far heathy hills, whare they 're risin', Whose summits are shaded wi' blue; There the fleet mountain roes they are lyin', Or feedin' their fawns, love, for you.

Right sweet are our scenes i' the gloamin', Whan shepherds return frae the hill, Aroun' by the banks o' Loch Lomon', While bagpipes are soundin' sae shrill.

Right sweet is the low-setting sunbeams, That points owre the quivering stream; But sweeter the smiles o' my Mary, And kinder the blinks o' her een.

THE BANKS OF TARF.

TUNE--_"Sin' my Uncle 's dead."_

Where windin' Tarf, by broomy knowes Wi' siller waves to saut sea rows; And mony a greenwood cl.u.s.ter grows, And harebells bloomin' bonnie, O!

Below a spreadin' hazle lea, Fu' snugly hid whare nane could see, While blinkin' love beam'd frae her e'e, I met my bonnie Annie, O!

Her neck was o' the snaw-drap hue, Her lips like roses wet wi' dew; But O! her e'e, o' azure blue, Was past expression bonnie, O!

Like threads o' gowd her flowin' hair, That lightly wanton'd wi' the air; But vain were a' my rhymin' ware To tell the charms o' Annie, O!

While smilin' in my arms she lay, She whisperin' in my ear did say, "Oh, how could I survive the day, Should you prove fause, my Tammie, O?"

"While spangled fish glide to the main, While Scotlan's braes shall wave wi' grain, Till this fond heart shall break wi' pain, I 'll aye be true to Annie, O!"

The Beltan winds blew loud and lang, And ripplin' raised the spray alang; We cheerfu' sat, and cheerfu' sang, The banks of Tarf are bonnie, O!

Though sweet is spring, whan young and gay, And blithe the blinks o' summer day; I fear nae winter cauld and blae, If blest wi' love and Annie, O!

O! WILL YE GO TO YON BURN SIDE.

TUNE--_"Will ye walk the woods with me?"_

O! will ye go to yon burn side, Amang the new-made hay; And sport upon the flowery swaird, My ain dear May?

The sun blinks blithe on yon burn side, Whar lambkins lightly play, The wild bird whistles to his mate, My ain dear May.

The waving woods, wi' mantle green, Shall shield us in the bower, Whare I 'll pu' a posy for my May, O' mony a bonnie flower.

My father maws ayont the burn, My mammy spins at hame; And should they see thee here wi' me, I 'd better been my lane.

The lightsome lammie little kens What troubles it await-- Whan ance the flush o' spring is o'er, The fause bird lea'es its mate.

The flowers will fade, the woods decay, And lose their bonnie green; The sun wi' clouds may be o'ercast, Before that it be e'en.

Ilk thing is in its season sweet; So love is in its noon: But cankering time may soil the flower, And spoil its bonnie bloom.

Oh, come then, while the summer shines, And love is young and gay; Ere age his withering, wintry blast Blaws o'er me and my May.

For thee I 'll tend the fleecy flocks, Or haud the halesome plough; And nightly clasp thee to my breast, And prove aye leal and true.

The blush o'erspread her bonnie face, She had nae mair to say, But gae her hand and walk'd alang, The youthfu', bloomin' May.

ALEXANDER RODGER.

Alexander Rodger was born on the 16th July 1784, at East Calder, Midlothian. His father, originally a farmer, was lessee of the village inn; he subsequently removed to Edinburgh, and latterly emigrated to Hamburgh. Alexander was apprenticed in his twelfth year to a silversmith in Edinburgh. On his father leaving the country, in 1797, he joined his maternal relatives in Glasgow, who persuaded him to adopt the trade of a weaver. He married in his twenty-second year; and contrived to add to the family finances by cultivating a taste for music, and giving lessons in the art. Extreme in his political opinions, he was led in 1819 to afford his literary support to a journal originated with the design of promoting disaffection and revolt. The connexion was attended with serious consequences; he was convicted of revolutionary practices, and sent to prison. On his release from confinement he was received into the Barrowfield Works, as an inspector of cloths used for printing and dyeing. He held this office during eleven years; he subsequently acted as a p.a.w.nbroker, and a reporter of local intelligence to two different newspapers. In 1836 he became a.s.sistant in the publishing office of the _Reformers' Gazette_, a situation which he held till his death. This event took place on the 26th September 1846.

Rodger published two small collections of verses, and a volume of "Poems and Songs." Many of his poems, though abounding in humour, are disfigured by coa.r.s.e political allusions. Several of his songs are of a high order, and have deservedly become popular. He was less the poet of external nature than of the domestic affections; and, himself possessed of a lively sympathy with the humbler cla.s.ses, he took delight in celebrating the simple joys of the peasant's hearth. A master of the pathetic, his muse sometimes a.s.sumed a sportive gaiety, when the laugh is irresistible. Among a wide circle he was held in estimation; he was fond of society, and took pleasure in humorous conversation. In 1836, about two hundred of his fellow-citizens entertained him at a public festival and handed him a small box of sovereigns; and some admiring friends, to mark their respect for his memory, have erected a handsome monument over his remains in the Necropolis of Glasgow.

SWEET BET OF ABERDEEN.

How brightly beams the bonnie moon, Frae out the azure sky; While ilka little star aboon Seems sparkling bright wi' joy.

How calm the eve, how blest the hour!

How soft the silvan scene!

How fit to meet thee, lovely flower, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

Now let us wander through the broom, And o'er the flowery lea; While simmer wafts her rich perfume, Frae yonder hawthorn tree: There, on yon mossy bank we 'll rest, Where we 've sae aften been; Clasp'd to each other's throbbing breast-- Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

How sweet to view that face so meek-- That dark expressive eye-- To kiss that lovely blushing cheek-- Those lips of coral dye!

But O! to hear thy seraph strains, Thy maiden sighs between, Makes rapture thrill through all my veins-- Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

O! what to us is wealth or rank?

Or what is pomp or power?

More dear this velvet mossy bank-- This blest ecstatic hour!

I 'd covet not the monarch's throne, Nor diamond-studded Queen, While blest wi' thee, and thee alone, Sweet Bet of Aberdeen!

BEHAVE YOURSEL' BEFORE FOLK.