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[ "Lass o' Peatie's Mill" is the name of an old air, the original words to which are lost, but the subject of the song is said to have been a daughter of John Anderson, of Peatie's Mill, in the parish of Keithhall, Aberdeenshire. wrote the present words to the old tune. Burns relates an incident connected with the composition of Ramsay's song, which does not well tally with the fact that an old tune called "The Lass o' Peatie's Mill" really did exist before Ramsay's day, as it is more likely that Ramsay borrowed his title from that tune than that two different beauties in two different Patie's Mills inspired the strains of two different poets. "In Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland," says Burns, "this song is localized (a verb I must use for want of another to express my idea) somewhere in the North of Scotland, and likewise is claimed by Ayrshire.—The following anecdote I had from the present Sir William Cunningham of Robertland, who had it from the last John Earl of Loudon—The then Earl of Loudon, and father to Earl John before mentioned, had Ramsay at Loudon, and one day walking together by the banks of Irvine water, near New-Mills, at a place yet called Peaty's Mill, they were struck with the appearance of a beautiful country girl. His lordship observed that she would be a fine theme for a song.—Allan lagged behind in returning to Loudon Castle, and at dinner produced this identical song."]

lass o' Patie's Mill,

Sae bonnie, blythe, and gay,

In spite of a' my skill,

She stole my heart away.

When teddin' out the hay,

Bareheaded on the green,

Love mid her locks did play,

And wanton'd in her een.

Her arms, white, round, and smooth;

Breasts in their rising dawn;

To age it would give youth,

To press them with his han'.

Through all my spirits ran

An ecstasy of bliss,

When I such sweetness fand

Wrapt in a balmy kiss.

Without the help of art,

Like flowers that grace the wild,

She did her sweets impart,

Whene'er she spak' or smiled:

Her looks they were so mild,

Free from affected pride,

She me to love beguiled;

I wish'd her for my bride.

Oh! had I a' the wealth

Hopetoun's high mountains fill,

Insured lang life and health,

And pleasure at my will;

I'd promise, and fulfil,

That nane but bonnie she,

The lass o' Patie's Mill,

Should share the same wi' me.

[.—Air, "Oran an Aoig or The Song of Death."—The Hon. Henry Cadogan, lieut.-colonel of the 71st regiment, fell at the battle of Vittoria, on 21st June, 1813. An elegant marble monument was erected to his memory in the choir of the Glasgow Cathedral.]

the sunset of glory the ev'ning is calm,

No wild howling tempest can rave,

The winds are all hush'd, and the dew-drops are balm,

As they rest on the cheek of the brave.

At the war flash of battle, how gleams the red cheek,

As it brightens while freedom is nigh;

And the eye, as it closes, will high glory speak,

While Victory heaves the last sigh.

How nobly he smiles from the field of his fame,

With the death-mark engraved on his breast,

With a feeble huzza, he joins the acclaim,

And expires on the bed of his rest.

Cadogan! with glory thou'lt ever be named,

And the heroes of Greece and of Rome,

Will bend from their bright clouds, (those warriors famed,)

And exultingly rest on thy tomb.