Oh! dinna cross the burn, Willie, Dinna cross the burn, For big 's the spate, and loud it roars; Oh, dinna cross the burn.

Your folks a' ken you 're here the nicht, And sair they wad you blame; Sae bide wi' me till mornin' licht-- Indeed, you 're no gaun hame.

The thunder-storm howls in the glen, The burn is rising fast; Bide only twa-three hours, and then The storm 'll a' be past.

Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Then bide, dear Willie, here the nicht, Oh, bide till mornin' here; My faither, he 'll see a' things richt, And ye 'll hae nocht to fear.

See, dark 's the lift, no moon is there, The rains in torrents pour; And see the lightning's dreadful glare, Hear how the thunders roar!

Oh, dinna cross, &c.

Away he rode, no kind words could His mad resolve o'erturn; He plunged into the foaming flood, But never cross'd the burn!

And now though ten long years have pa.s.s'd Since that wild storm blew by-- Oh! still the maniac hears the blast, And still her crazy cry, Oh, dinna cross, &c.

ALEXANDER TAIT.

Alexander Tait is a native of Peebles. Abandoning in 1829 the occupation of a cotton-weaver, he has since been engaged in the work of tuition. He has taught successively in the parishes of La.s.swade, Tweedsmuir, Meggat, Pennycuick, Yarrow, and Peebles. To the public journals, both in prose and verse, he has been an extensive contributor.

E'ENING'S DEWY HOUR.

AIR--_'Roslin Castle.'_

When rosy day, far in the west, has vanish'd frae the scene, And gloamin' spreads her mantle gray owre lake and mountain green; When yet the darklin' shades o' mirk but haflens seem to lower, How dear to love and beauty is the e'ening's dewy hour!

When down the burnie's wimpling course, amid the hazel shade, The robin chants his vesper sang, the cushat seeks the glade; When bats their drowsy vigils wheel round eldrich tree and tower, Be 't mine to meet the la.s.s I lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

When owre the flower-bespangled sward the flocks have ceased to stray, And maukin steals across the lawn beneath the twilight gray; Then, oh! how dear, frae men apart, in glen or woodland bower, To meet the la.s.s we dearly lo'e at e'ening's dewy hour!

The ruddy morn has charms enow, when, from the glowin' sky, The sun on rival beauties smiles wi' gladness in his eye; But, oh! the softer shaded scene has magic in its power, Which cheers the youthful lover's heart at e'ening's dewy hour!

CHARLES FLEMING.

A handloom weaver in Paisley, of which place he is a native, Charles Fleming has, from early youth, devoted his leisure hours to the pursuits of elegant literature. He has long been a contributor to the public journals.

WATTY M'NEIL.

When others are boasting 'bout fetes and parades, Whar silken hose shine, and glitter c.o.c.kades, In the low-thatched cot mair pleasure I feel To discourse wi' the aul'-farint Watty M'Neil.

The gentles may hoot, and slip by his door; His mien it is simple, his haudin' is poor: Aft fashion encircles a heart no sae leal-- Far, far will ye ride for a Watty M'Neil.

His welcome is touching, yet nought o' the faun-- A warmth is express'd in the shake o' his han'; His cog and his bed, or ought in his biel, The lonely will share frae kind Watty M'Neil.

He kens a' 'bout Scotland, its friends and its foes, How Leslie did triumph o'er gallant Montrose; And the Covenant's banner ower Philiphaugh's fiel'

Waved glorious--'twas n.o.ble, says Watty M'Neil.

Then gang and see Watty ere laid in the mools, He 's a help to the wise folk, a lesson to fools; Contentment and innocence mingle sae weel Mid the braw lyart haffits o' Watty M'Neil.

WILLIAM FERGUSON.

The author of several esteemed and popular songs, William Ferguson, follows the avocation of a master plumber in Nicolson Street, Edinburgh.

Born within the shadow of the Pentlands, near the scene of Ramsay's "Gentle Shepherd," he has written verses from his youth. He has contributed copiously to "Whistle Binkie," and "The Book of Scottish Song."

I 'LL TEND THY BOWER, MY BONNIE MAY.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, In spring time o' the year; When saft'ning winds begin to woo The primrose to appear; When daffodils begin to dance, And streams again flow free; And little birds are heard to pipe, On the sprouting forest tree.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When summer days are lang, When nature's heart is big wi' joy, Her voice laden wi' sang; When shepherds pipe on sunny braes, And flocks roam at their will, And auld and young, in cot an' ha', O' pleasure drink their fill.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When autumn's yellow fields, That wave like seas o' gowd, before The glancin' sickle yields; When ilka bough is bent wi' fruit-- A glorious sight to see!-- And showers o' leaves, red, rustling, sweep Out owre the withering lea.

I 'll tend thy bower, my bonnie May, When, through the naked trees, Cauld, shivering on the bare hill-side, Sweeps wild the frosty breeze; When tempests roar, and billows rise, Till nature quakes wi' fear, And on the land, and on the sea, Wild winter rules the year.

WOOING SONG.

The spring comes back to woo the earth, Wi' a' a lover's speed; The wee birds woo their lovin' mates, Around our very head!

But I 've nae skill in lover-craft-- For till I met wi' you, I never sought a maiden's love, I never tried to woo.

I 've gazed on many a comely face, And thought it sweet an' fair; But wi' the face the charm would flee, And never move me mair.

But miles away, your bonnie face Is ever in my view, Wi' a' its charms, half wilin' me, Half daurin' me to woo.

At hame, a-field, you 're a' my theme; I doat my time away; I dream o'er a' your charms by night, And worship them by day.

But when they glad my langin' e'en, As they are gladden'd now, My courage flees like frighted bird; I daurna mint to woo.

My head thus lying on your lap, Your hand aneath my cheek; Love stounds my bosom through and through, But yet I canna speak.