Poor body! bewilder'd, I scarcely do ken The haunts that were dear ance to me; I yirded a plant in the days o' my youth, An' the mavis now sings on the tree. But, haith! there 's nae scenes I wad niffer wi' thae; For it fills my fond heart fu' o' glee, To think how at last my auld banes they will rest, Near the bonnie green braes o' Drumlee. I WINNA GANG BACK TO MY MAMMY AGAIN. I winna gang back to my mammy again, I 'll never gae back to my mammy again; I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again. I 've held by her apron, &c. Young Johnnie cam' down i' the gloamin' to woo, Wi' plaidie sae bonny, an' bannet sae blue: "O come awa, lassie, ne'er let mammy ken;" An' I flew wi' my laddie o'er meadow an' glen. "O come awa, lassie," &c. He ca'd me his dawtie, his dearie, his doo, An' press'd hame his words wi' a smack o' my mou'; While I fell on his bosom heart-flicher'd an' fain, An' sigh'd out, "O Johnnie, I 'll aye be your ain!" While I fell on his bosom, &c. Some lasses will talk to their lads wi' their e'e, Yet hanker to tell what their hearts really dree; Wi' Johnnie I stood upon nae stapping-stane, Sae I 'll never gae back to my mammy again. Wi' Johnnie I stood, &c. For many lang year sin' I play'd on the lea, My mammy was kind as a mither could be; I 've held by her apron these aught years an' ten, But I 'll never gang back to my mammy again. I 've held by her apron, &c. THE BARD. IRISH AIR--_"The Brown Maid."_ The Bard strikes his harp the wild valleys amang, Whare the tall aiken trees spreading leafy appear; While the murmuring breeze mingles sweet wi' his sang, An' wafts the saft notes till they die on the ear; But Mary, whase presence sic transport conveys, Whase beauties my moments o' pleasure control, On the strings o' my heart ever wantonly plays, An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul! Her breath is as sweet as the sweet-scented brier, That blossoms and blaws in yon wild lanely glen; When I view her fair form which nae mortal can peer, A something o'erpowers me I dinna weel ken. What sweetness her snawy white bosom displays! The blink o' her bonny black e'e wha' can thole! On the strings o' my heart she bewitchingly plays, An' each languishing note is a sigh frae my soul! LOUISA IN LOCHABER. Can ought be constant as the sun, That makes the world sae cheerie? Yes, a' the powers can witness be, The love I bear my dearie. But what can make the hours seem lang, An' rin sae wondrous dreary? What but the space that lies between Me an' my only dearie.