Menie Hay?"
"Dear mother, but the stars sae clear
Around the bonnie Milky Way."
"Sweet are thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
Ye something see ye daurna say,
Paukie, winsome Menie Hay!"

The window 's shut, the light is gane,
And wi' it gane is Menie Hay;
But wha is seen upon the green,
Kissing sweetly Menie Hay?
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
For ane sae young ye ken the way,
And far from blate, O Menie Hay!"

"Gae scour the country, hill and dale;
Oh! waes me, where is Menie Hay?
Search ilka nook, in town or vale,
For my daughter, Menie Hay."
"Sweet art thou, O Menie Hay!
Slee I trow, O Menie Hay!
I wish you joy, young Johnie Fay,
O' your bride, sweet Menie Hay."

I 'VE WANDER'D ON THE SUNNY HILL.

I 've wander'd on the sunny hill, I 've wander'd in the vale,
Where sweet wee birds in fondness meet to breathe their am'rous tale;
But hills or vales, or sweet wee birds, nae pleasures gae to me--
The light that beam'd its ray on me was Love's sweet glance from thee.

The rising sun, in golden beams, dispels the night's dark gloom--
The morning dew to rose's hue imparts a freshening bloom;
But sunbeams ne'er so brightly play'd in dance o'er yon glad sea,
Nor roses laved in dew sae sweet as Love's sweet glance from thee.

I love thee as the pilgrims love the water in the sand,
When scorching rays or blue simoom sweep o'er their withering hand;
The captive's heart nae gladlier beats when set from prison free,
Than I when bound wi' Beauty's chain in Love's sweet glance from thee.

I loved thee, bonnie Bessie, as the earth adores the sun,
I ask'd nae lands, I craved nae gear, I prized but thee alone;
Ye smiled in look, but no in heart--your heart was no for me;
Ye planted hope that never bloom'd in Love's sweet glance from thee.

OH! YEARS HAE COME.

Oh! years hae come, an' years hae gane,
Sin' first I sought the warld alane,
Sin' first I mused wi' heart sae fain
On the hills o' Caledonia.
But oh! behold the present gloom,
My early friends are in the tomb,
And nourish now the heather bloom
On the hills o' Caledonia.

My father's name, my father's lot,
Is now a tale that 's heeded not,
Or sang unsung, if no forgot
On the hills o' Caledonia.