Burns mentions with the warmest approbation, the following beautiful fragment from Witherspoon's collection of Scotch songs.

AIR-Hughie Graham.

The following stanza is highly characteristic of its Ayrshire author.

When Death's dark stream I ferry o'er,

A time that surely shall come;

In Heaven itself, I'll`ask no more,

Than just A HIGHLAND WELCOME.

We remember to have heard a blithsome brother of the can, a bonnie boy frae the Highlands sing, with all the merriment of a grig, the following song by BURNS.

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed,

The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie,
Willie was a wabster gude,

Could stown a clue, wi' ony bodie,
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither.
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her.

She has an 'ee, she has but ane,
The cat has twa, the very colour;
Five rusty teeth forbye a stump,
A clapper tongue wa'd deave a miller.

A whiskin beard about her mou,
Her nose and chin they threaten ither.
Sic a wife, &c.

She's bow hough'd, she's hein shinn'd,
Ae limpin leg, a hand breed shorter,
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther.
Sic a wife, &c.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,
An' wi' her loof, her face a washin;
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion:
Her wailie neeyes, like midden creels,
Her face wad fyle the Logan water.
Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wadna gie a button for her.

Burns somewhere asks his friend, Mr. Thompson, if he knows a certain blackguard Irish song, and then adds, very justly, that the air is charming,. and that he has often regretted the want of decent verses. In this exigency he undertakes to write new verses to the old tune. These are not only pure from every taint, but are memorable for their sweet simplicity.

VOL. V.

Sae flaxen were her ringlets,
Her eye brows of a darker hue,
Bewitchingly o'er-arching,

Twa laughing cen o' bonnie blue.
Her smiling sac wyling,

Wad make a wretch forget his wo;
What pleasure, what treasure,
Unto these rosey lips to grow :

2 A

Such was my Chloris' bonnie face,
When first her bonnie face I saw,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Like harmony her motion,
Her pretty ancle is a spy,
Betraying fair proportion,
Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,
Her fautless form, and gracefu' air
Ilk feature---auld nature,

Declar'd that she could do nae mair:
Her's are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering Beauty's sovereign law,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo'es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunny noon,

Gie me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve and rising moon.

Fair beaming and streaming,

Her silver light the boughs amang,
While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang,
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove,

By wimpling burn, and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,
And say thou lo'es me best of a'

SHENSTONE, who plumed himself as a song writer, has nothing comparable to the following.

Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade;
The village bell has told the hour,
O what can stay my lovely maid?

'Tis not Maria's whispering call,
'Tis but the balmy breathing gale,
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear,

So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little faithful mate to cheer,
At once 'tis music, and 'tis love.

And art thou come, and art thou true,
O welcome dear to love and me,
And let us all our vows renew,

Along the flowery banks of Cree.

Of the real condition of a sufferer's mind, we cannot form a correct judgment from an erect and smiling air. CRABBE has finely expressed this opinion:

'Tis not for us to tell,

Though the head droops not, that the heart is well.

AN IDEA IN THE NIGHT-FOR THE PORT FOLIO.

-Vigiles lucernas,
Perfer in lucem.

HORACE.

In my desultory rambles throughout the streets and lanes, the alleys and courts of this charming city, I do not proceed with the plodding pace of a plowman, gazing on the ground. Neither do I indulge myself in such fits of abstraction as totally to prevent the attentive survey of surrounding objects. I stare at signs, with all a clown's curiosity; and at the windows of a print shop, with the eagerness of an amateur. Instead of mu