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Wha could behold thy rosy cheek,

And no feel love's sharp pang, Annie,
What heart could view thy smiling looks,

And plot to do thee wrang, Annie.
Thy name in ilka sang I'll weave,
My heart, my soul wi' thee I'll leave,
And never, till I cease to breathe,

I'll cease to think on thee, Annie.



AIR. -The bunch of Green Rushes, &c.

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woer,

That chase one another like waves of the deep, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,

Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weer,

So closely our whims on our miseries tread,

That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried ; And as fast as the rain-drop of pity is shed,

The goose-plumage of folly can turn it aside. But pledge me the cup—if existence would cloy,

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, Be ours the light grief, that is sister to joy,

And the short brilliant folly, that flashes and dies.

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,

Thro' fields full of sunshine, with heart full of play, Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,

And neglected his task for flowers on the way.
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted

The fountain that runs by philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,

And left their light urns all as empty as mine!
But pledge me the goblet—while idleness weaves

Her flowerets together, if wisdom can see
One bright drop or two, that has fallen on the leaves,

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.



Here's a health to them that's awes

And here's to them that's awa;
And wha winna wish good luck to our cause,

May never good luck be their fa'! . .
Its gude to be merry and wise,

Its gude to be honest and true;
Its gude to support Caledonia's cause,

And bide by the Buff and the Blue.

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* We feel much pleasure in presenting to our readers the complete copy of a song, the composition of the immortal Burns; it was first communi. cated from a highly respectable quarter, to the editors of the Scots Magazine, and is to be found in the number for Jan. 1818.Two other fragments, by the same' Bard, were also transmitted at the same time, accompanied with the following note." As every thing that fell from the pen of Burns is worthy of preservation, I transcribe, for your Miscellany, the complete copy of a song which Cromek has printed, (page 423 of his vol.) in an unfinished state,-to. gether with two fragments that have never yet been published. The origi. hals of these I possess in the hand-writing of their unfortunate Author, who transmitted them, inclosed in letters, to a constant friend of his, through all bis calamities, by whom they were finally assigned to me.".

Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa ;
Here's a health to Charlie t, the chief of the clette

Although that his band be but sma'!
May Liberty meet with success,

May prudence protect her frae evil ; May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist,

And wander the road to the devil.

Here's a health to them that's away

And here's to them that's awa;
Here's a health to Tammie S, the Norlan laddie,

That lives at the lug o' the law !
Here's freedom to bim that would read,

And freedom to him that would write;
There's nane ever feared that the truth should be heard,

But they whom the truth would indite.

The fragments here spoken of, we subjoing in order that the curiosity of our Veaders may be gratified.

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Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa,
Here's Maitland, and Wycombe, and wha does na liko 'em

Be built in a hole o' the wa'!
Here's timmer that's red at the heart,

Here's fruit that is sound at the core :
May be that would turn the Buff and Blue coat,

Be turned to the back o' the door,

Here's a health to them that's awa,

And here's to them that's awa,
Here's chieftain M‘Leod, a chieftain worth gowd,

Though bred amang mountains o' snaw.
Here's friends on bạith sides o' the Forth,

And friends on baith sides o' the Tweed;
And wha would betray old Albign's rightp,

May they never eat of her bread.


As I came in by our gate end,

As day was waxen weary,
O wha came tripping down the street

But bonnie Peg, my dearie !

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete,

Wi' nae proportion wanting,
The queen of love did never move

Wi' motion mair enchanting. Laat
Wi' linked hands, we took the sands

Adown yon winding river;
And, oh! that hour and broomy bower,

Can I forget it ever!

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