my shepherd lad,
And ye may row me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie."

"While water wimples to the sea,
While day blinks in the lift sae hie,
Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e,
Ye shall be my dearie."

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Of this song a new version was composed by Burns, the original
chorus being retained. Burns' version commences--"Hark the mavis'
evening sang."

JOHN MITCHELL.

John Mitchell, the Paisley bard, died in that place on the 12th August
1856, in his seventieth year. He was born at Paisley in 1786. The labour
of weaving he early sought to relieve by the composition of verses. He
contributed pieces, both in prose and verse, to the _Moral and Literary
Observer_, a small Paisley periodical of the year 1823, and of which he
was the publisher. In 1838, he appeared as the author of "A Night on the
Banks of the Doon, and other Poems," a volume which was followed in 1840
by "The Wee Steeple's Ghaist, and other Poems and Songs," the latter
being dedicated to Professor Wilson. In the year 1840, he likewise
produced, jointly with a Mr Dickie, the "Philosophy of Witchcraft," a
work which, published by Messrs Oliver and Boyd, was well received. His
next publication appeared in 1845, with the title, "One Hundred Original
Songs." His last work, "My Gray Goose Quill, and other Poems and Songs,"
was published in 1852.

Mitchell employed himself latterly in forwarding the sale of his
publications, and succeeded by this course in securing a comfortable
maintenance. He wrote verses with much readiness, and occasionally with
considerable power. His songs, which we have selected for the present
work, are distinguished by graceful simplicity and elegant pathos. Had
Mitchell written less, and more carefully, he had reached a higher niche
in the Temple of National Song. His manners were eccentric, and he was
not unconscious of his poetical endowments.

BEAUTY.

What wakes the Poet's lyre?
'Tis Beauty;
What kindles his poetic fire?
'Tis Beauty;
What makes him seek, at evening's hour,
The lonely glen, the leafy bower,
When dew hangs on each little flower?
Oh! it is Beauty.

What melts the soldier's soul?
'Tis Beauty;
What can his love of fame control?
'Tis Beauty;
For oft, amid the battle's rage,
Some lovely vision will engage
His thoughts and war's rough ills assuage:
Such power