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BONIE DOON

YE flowery banks o' bonie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair? How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou reminds me o' the happy days,
When my fause luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie bird,
Thou sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonie Doon

To see the woodbine twine, And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose Frae aff its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw my rose But left the thorn wi' me.

HIGHLAND MARY

YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel,
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life,

Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;

But O! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early! Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kissed sae fondly!

And closed for ay the sparkling glance,
That dwalt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

DUNCAN GRAY

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo,
(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!)

On blythe Yule night when we were fou,
(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!)
Maggie coost her head fu high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed; (Ha, ha, the wooin o't!)

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!) Duncan sighed baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;

Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

Time and chance are but a tide,
(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!)

Slighted love is sair to bide,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!)

"Shall I, like a fool," quoth he, "For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to France for me!" Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

How it comes let doctors tell,

(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!)

Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
(Ha, ha, the wooin o't!)
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And O! her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooin o't!

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What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-gray, an' a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a cuif for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,

His riband, star, an' a' that,
The man o' independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he mauna fa that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that)

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the world o'er,
Shall brithers be for a' that.

TO MARY IN HEAVEN

THOU ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn. Again thou usher'st in the day

My Mary from my soul was torn.

O Mary! dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?

That sacred hour can I forget,

Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met. To live one day of parting love?

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SOME EIGHTEENTH CENTURY LETTERS

English literature is particularly rich in the number and excellence of its letter-writers. The eighteenth century was especially prolific in the variety as well as the quality of interesting letters written by the men and women who achieved distinction in that social era. The first novels, especially those of Richardson, partook largely of the epistolary form. Much of the material of the periodical essays of Addison, Steele, and Johnson was in the form of an imaginary correspondence and there were many who set down in their memoirs just such informal material as we find in the actual letter-writers of the period. It was a society-loving age, when people had the time and the inclination to write long and often and intimately of what was going on in the world about them. As much time was spent in the occupation, letters were carefully preserved and fortunately have been the source of much of our knowledge of the period.

"Letters ought to be nothing but extempore conversation on paper," wrote Horace Walpole to Lady Ossary. On the whole, these eighteenth century letters show little of the speculative brooding and dreaming of the romantic era but they reflect as truthfully what the representatives of the time were thinking and the affairs that held their attention.

The relations between Swift and Mrs. Esther Johnson, the Stella of his Journal, have been the despair of his biographers. To her and her companion, Mrs. Rebecca Dingley, Swift wrote regularly, giving a minute account of his life in London, his political and literary occupations, the gossip of the town, and his reflections on the leaders of the day. For the most part the letters were written at night when he came home to his lodgings. "The 'little language' which Swift used when writing to Stella (Esther Johnson) was the language he employed when playing with her as a little child at Moor Park. It is marked chiefly by such changes of letters (e.g., l for n, or n for ) as a child makes when learning to speak. Swift is Presto, and Pdfr. sometimes Podefar (perhaps Poor dear foolish rogue). Stella is Ppt (Poor pretty thing). MD (my dears) usually stands for both Stella and Mrs. Dingley, but sometimes for Stella alone. Mrs. Dingley is indicated by ME (Madame Elderly). The letters FW may mean Farewell, or Foolish Wenches. Lele seems to be There, there, and sometimes truly."-G. A. AITKEN. Horace Walpole is generally acknowledged as the prince of letter-writers. His letters were the chief work of his life, no other person has dealt with so great a variety of subjects. The first letter we possess was written when Walpole was fifteen years old (1732) and his letters continue for sixty years, the most complete edition containing a total of more than three thousand addressed to more than one hundred and fifty correspondents. Walpole studied letter-writing as an art, but he was at the same time a distinguished figure of his age. Consequently, this wonderful collection is a record not only of the author but of the most important men and events of the sixty years from 1732-1792.

Philip, fourth earl of Chesterfield, was one of the foremost English statesmen of his age and an unique personality in English literature. His letters to his son, according to Sainte-Beuve, the distinguished French critic, contained on every page some happy observation worthy of being kept in remembrance. He began writing

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