ol. xxi. p. 170.

LOGAN BRAES.[23]

By Logan's streams, that rin sae deep,
Fu' aft wi' glee I've herded sheep,
I've herded sheep, or gather'd slaes,
Wi' my dear lad, on Logan braes.
But, waes my heart! thae days are gane,
And I wi' grief may herd alane;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

Nae mair at Logan kirk will he
Atween the preachings meet wi' me,
Meet wi' me, or, whan it's mirk,
Convoy me hame frae Logan kirk.
I weel may sing thae days are gane--
Frae kirk and fair I come alane,
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.

At e'en, when hope amaist is gane,
I daunder dowie and forlane;
I sit alane, beneath the tree
Where aft he kept his tryste wi' me.
Oh, could I see thae days again,
My lover skaithless, and my ain!
Beloved by friends, revered by faes,
We'd live in bliss on Logan braes.

[23] This song originally consisted of two stanzas, the third stanza
being subsequently added by the author. It is adapted to a beautiful old
air, "Logan Water," incongruously connected with some indecorous
stanzas. Burns deemed Mayne's version an elder production of the
Scottish muse, and attempted to modernise the song, but his edition is
decidedly inferior. Other four stanzas have been added, by some
anonymous versifier, to Mayne's verses, which first appeared in Duncan's
"Encyclopaedia of Scottish, English, and Irish Songs," printed at Glasgow
in 1836, 2 vols. 12mo. In those stanzas the lover is brought back to
Logan braes, and consummates his union with his weeping shepherdess. The
stream of Logan takes its rise among the hills separating the parishes
of Lesmahago and Muirkirk, and, after a flow of eight miles, deposits
its waters into the Nethan river.

HELEN OF KIRKCONNEL.[24]

I wish I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries;
And, like an angel, to the skies
Still seems to beckon me!
For me she lived, for me she sigh'd,
For me she wish'd to be a bride;
For me in life's sweet morn she died
On fair Kirkconnel-Lee!

Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival with a ruthless mind
Took deadly aim at me.
My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow;
And now her corse is lying low,
On