On the Banks of a Burn, in the sweet Shire of Air,
Fair MARGARET MACKAY first open'd her Een;
The Babe was fou'bonny - what can be said mare ?
The wide Warld'thrugh, ne'er a bonnier was seen.

That Morning the Throstles and Linnets sang sweet,
The Burn, laith to leave her, creep'd slowly alang;
The Lambs seem'd in musical Measure to bleat,
The Lads gaily whistled, the Lasses, they sang.

For that MARGARET MACKAY that Day saw the Leight,
The Lasses, the Lads, and the Birds sweetly sang,
The Lambs seem'd in musical Measure to bleat,
The Burn, laith to leave her, creep'd slowly alang.

Now sixteen bright Summers had golden'd the Grain,
Had ripen'd the Roses on MARGARET's Cheek,
Had crown'd her completely the Pride of the Plain;
In Beauty how blooming, in Manners how meek !

The Swains saw and figh'd, for to see was to love,
To view, was to feel the full Force of her Charms;
But nane, save young CAMPBELL, could MARGARET approve;
He fill'd her fond Breast with Love's pleasing Alarms.

But, ah ! they must part; for the CAMPBELLS are brave;
His Country demands him, and he will obey;
And now her brave CAMPBELL has cross'd the salt Wave;
To wed Death or Glory he's steering his Way.

Onn the Banks of the Burn, by the Side of the Willow,
Wan MARG'RET lay weeping the Loss of her Love;
The cold Ground her Bed, the hard Rock was her pillow:
So mourns for her Mate the disconsolate Dove.

"Ah me!" cry'd the Mourner, "what's now worth my heeding?
"What Joy, or what Comfort, can MARGARET have?
"Perhaps at this Moment my CAMPBELL lies bleeding !
"Perhaps at this Moment lies cold in his Grave !"

Despairing, desponding, the rose in Distraction,
Plung'd deep ini the Stream, crying "Save him ! oh, save."
May Heav'n in its Mercy, remit the rash Action !
For the Burn was her Bier, and watery Grave.

Wigton                                                            E.C.