But round with the liquor, my boys!
'Tis folly to languish repining;
To swell up the tide of our joys,
This brimmer was sent us so shining.
Since blockheads and asses grow rich,
And modesty murders the wearer,
If Merit must cower in the ditch,
May she still have a bumper to cheer her,
And raise her poor head to the skies.
I'll lo'e thee, Annie.
[From a collection of Poems published in 1836, entitled "The Sea Nymph's Wake, and other Poems: by Robert Hamilton." Mr. Hamilton is now resident in New York, and editor there of a popular monthly miscellany, called "The Ladies' Companion."]
I'll lo'e thee, Annie, while the dew
In siller bells hings on the tree;
Or while the burnie's waves o' blue
Rin wimplin' to the rowin' sea.
I'll lo'e thee while the gowan mild
Its crimson fringe spreads on the lea;
While blooms the heather in the wild—
Oh! Annie, I'll be true to thee.
I'll lo'e thee while the lintie sings
His sang o' love on whinny brae;
I'll lo'e thee while the crystal springs
Glint in the gowden gleams o' day;
I'll lo'e thee while there's licht aboon,
And stars to stud the breast o' sky;
I'll lo'e thee till life's day is done,
And bless thee wi' my latest sigh.
My Mammy.
[This song, to the tone of "Contented wi' little and cantie wi' mair," or, as it was more anciently called, "Lumps o' puddin'," is here printed for the first time.]
Ilk ane now-a-days brags awa' 'bout his dear,
And praises her ripe lips and bright een sae clear;
But neither the ripe lip nor bonnie blue e'e
Can compare wi' the blink o' my mammy to me.
A bairn in her bosom I lay a' the night,
When there, neither bogles nor ghaists could me fright;
.
When yamm'rin', she bush'd me to sleep on her knee:
O! whae'er can compare wi' my mammy to me?
Fu' aft in her face I ha'e look'd up fu' fain,
While fondly she clasp'd me and croon'd some auld strain,
And aften the saut tear wad start to my e'e:
They were waesome, the sangs o' my manuny, to me.
O! yes, I ha'e grat for the twa bonnie weans
The wee robins cover'd wi' leaves wi' sic pains
And still, like a sunbeam that glints o'er the sea,
The auld sangs o' my mammy return back to me.
When sickness o'ercam' me, she watch'd late and air.
If open'd my dull e'e, I aye saw her there;
When roses my pale cheeks o'erspread, blythe was she—
O! whae'er was sae kind as my mammy to me?
Lang, lang I'll remember the days that are gane,
Since first I could Usp mam' and toddle my lane;
Though sair I be toss'd upon life's troubled sea,
Yet my heart will aye cling wi' affection to thee.
W. G. B.
My Peggy’s Face.
[Written by Burns in 1787, for Johnson's Museum, but not brought out there till the last volume. Mr. George Thomson inserted it in the 3d vol. of the 1st edition of his collection, changing the name "Peggy" to that of "Mary," and directing the song to be sung to the tune of "The Ewie wi' the crooked horn." The heroine of the song was Miss Margaret Chalmers, youngest daughter of James Chalmers, Esq. of England, and one of the poet's most confidential female correspondents. She married, in Dec. 1788, Lewis Hay, Esq. Edinburgh, and afterwards long resided in the south of France.]
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form,
The frost of hermit age might warm;
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind,
