O wha wad buy a silken goun
Wi' a poor broken heart!
Or what's to me a siller croun,
Gin frae my love I part!

The mind wha's every wish is pure
Far dearer is to me;

And ere I'm forc'd to break my faith
I'll lay me doun an' dee!

For I hae pledg'd my virgin troth
Brave Donald's fate to share;
And he has gi'en to me his heart,
Wi' a' its virtues rare.

His gentle manners wan my heart,
He gratefu' took the gift;

Could I but think to seek it back-
It wad be waur than theft !
For fangest life can ne'er repay

The love he bears to me;

And ere I'm forc'd to break my troth
I'll lay me doun an' dee.

O JENNY DEAR, I'VE COURTED LANG.

AIR-Lucy Campbell.

O Jenny dear, I've courted lang
I've telt my tale and sung my sang,
And yet I fear I'm i' the wrang,

For ye'll no mak a wedding o't.

In winter, when the frost and snaw
Wi' bitter blast around wad blaw,
I'd o'er the moor, nor mind it a',

In hopes ye'd mak a wedding o't. And gin ye smil'd or kindly spak, It smooth'd the road, and help'd me back; I thought nae answer I wad tak,

For we wad mak a wedding o't.

Now, when I gae to kirk or fair,
The laddies scoff, the lassies jeer ;—
"Is this poor Jock?-the good be here;
For sure he's made a wedding o't.
What has become of a' his fun?
Alak! his joyfu' days are done;
Or else he's pawn'd his dancing shoon,
Sin he has made a wedding o't.
Sure marriage is a dreadfu' thing!
Ye mind 'tis only i' the spring
That little birdies chirp and sing,

Or, till they've made a wedding o't."

Then up spak honest Johnny Bell:
"My bairns, I ance was young mysell;
I've mony a blithsome tale to tell

Sin first I made a wedding o't.
My Tibby was a winsome bride,—
Nay, yet she is her auld man's pride!
Nae faut i' her I ever spyed

Sin first we made a wedding o't:

Ilk day we live we fonder grow,
Though buckl'd fifty years ago;
Here's comfort for ye, young ones a',
Then haste ye, mak a wedding o't."

THE WAEFU' HEART.

[AIR: "The Waefu' Heart."-Both the words and music of this elegant and pathetic song were taken from a single sheet, printed in London about the year 1788, and sold by Joseph Dale, 19, Cornhill, "sung by Master Knyvett." From this circumstance I am led to conclude that it is a modern Anglo-Saxon production, especially as it does not appear in any of the old collection of songs. If it be an imitation of the Scottish style however, it is a very successful one.STENHOUSE.]

Gin living worth could win my heart,
You would nae speak in vain;
But in the darksome grave it's laid,
Never to rise again.

My waefu' heart lies low wi' his,

Whose heart was only mine;

And, O! what a heart was that to lose,-
But I maun no repine.

Yet, O! gin heaven in mercy soon

Would grant the boon I crave,
And take this life, now naething worth,

Since Jamie's in his grave.
And see! his gentle spirit comes

To show me on my way;

Surpris'd, nae doubt, I still am here,

Sair wondering at my stay.

I come, I come, my Jamie dear;
And O! wi' what good will
I follow wheresoe'er ye lead!
Ye canna lead to ill,

She said; and soon a deadly pale
Her faded cheek possess'd;
Her waefu' heart forgot to beat,-
Her sorrows sunk to rest.

I'M TIBBY FOWLER O' THE GLEN.

I'm Tibby Fowler o' the glen,

And nae great sight to see ;

But 'cause I'm rich, these plaguy men

Will never let me be.

There's bonny Maggy o' the brae

As gude as lass can be ;

But 'cause I'm rich, these plaguy men

Hae a' run wud for me.

There's Nabob Jock comes strutting ben,

He think's the day's his ain;
But were he a' hung round wi' goud,

He'd find himsel mista'en.

There's Wat aye tries to glowre and sigh
That I may guess the cause;
But, Jenny-like, I hate to spell
Dumb Roger's hums and ha's.

There's grinning Pate laughs a' day through,
The blithest lad you'll see ;

But troth he laughs sae out o' place,
He'd laugh gin I did dee.

There's Sandy, he's sae fou o' lear,
To talk wi' him is vain ;

For gin we a' should say 'twas fair,
He'd prove that it did rain.

Then Jamie frets for good and ill,
'Bout sma' things maks a phrase ;
And fears and frets, and things o' nought
Ding o'er his joyfu' days.

The priests and lawyers ding me dead,
But gude kens wha's the best;
And then comes in the soldier brave,
And drums out a' the rest.

The country squire and city beau,
I've had them on their knee;
But weel I ken to goud they bow,
And no downright to me.

Should like o' them come ilka day,

They may wear out the knee;
And grow to the groun' as fast as stane,
But they shall ne'er get me.