inserted among the songs of the
Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is
accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the
Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical
talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This
song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National
Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.

I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.

I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,
In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,
Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,
And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,
I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night
Will oft bring thine image again to my sight,
And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,
A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill
O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,
And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,
While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.
Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,
'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;
But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you
And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.

I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget
The love that grew warm as all others grew cold,
'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,
Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;
But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,
Shall my love, like a flower in the wilderness, bloom;
And thine still shall be, as so long it hath been,
A light to my soul when no other is seen.

LASSIE, DEAR LASSIE.

Lassie, dear lassie, the dew 's on the gowan,
And the brier-bush is sweet whar the burnie is rowin',
But the best buds of Nature may blaw till they weary,
Ere they match the sweet e'e or the cheek o' my dearie!

I wander alane, when the gray gloamin' closes,
And the lift is spread out like a garden o' roses;
But there 's nought which the earth or the sky can discover
Sae fair as thysell to thy fond-hearted lover!

The snaw-flake is pure frae the clud when it 's shaken,
And melts into dew ere it fa's on the bracken,
Oh sae pure is the heart I hae won to my keepin'!