NURSERY RHYMES.

It may excite surprise in some minds that the following simple Nursery Rhymes should be inserted in a volume of this kind, but we think no one can read these beautiful little pieces without feeling that Lord Jeffrey is right when, alluding to the volume from which these are selected ("Songs for the Nursery"), he says, "That there are more touches of genuine pathos, more felicities of idiomatic expression, more happy poetical images, and, above all, more sweet and engaging pictures of what is peculiar in the depth, softness, and thoughtfulness of our Scotch domestic affection, in this extraordinary little volume, than I have met with in anything like the same compass since the days of Burns."

THE WONDERFU' WEAL.

WILLIAM MILLER.

OUR wean's the most wonderfu' wean e'er I saw,
It would tak' me a long summer day to tell a'
His pranks, frae the morning till night shuts his ee,
When he sleeps like a peerie, 'tween father and me.
For in his quiet turns, siccan questions he'll speir :-
How the moon can stick up in the sky that's sae clear?
What gars the wind blaw? and whar frae comes the rain?
He's a perfect divert-he's a wonderfu' wean.

Or who was the first bodie's father? and wha
Made the very first snaw-shower that ever did fa'?
And who made the first bird that sang on a tree?
And the water that sooms a' the ships in the sea?—
But after I've told him as weel as I ken

Again he begins wi' his who? and his when ?

And he looks aye so watchfu' the while I explain,—
He's as auld as the hills-he's an auld-farrant wean.

And folk who ha'e skill o' the lumps on the head,
Hint there's mae ways than toiling o' winning ane's bread;

How he'll be a rich man, and ha'e men to work for him,
Wi' a kyte like a baillie's, shug shugging afore him;
Wi' a face like the moon, sober, sonsy, and douce,
And a back, for its breadth, like the side o' a house.
"Tweel I'm unco ta'en up wi't, they mak' a' sae plain ;-
He's just a town's talk-he's a by-ord'nar wean!

I ne'er can forgit sic a laugh as I gat,

To see him put on father's waistcoat and hat;

Then the lang-leggit boots gaed sae far ower his knees, The tap loops wi' his fingers he grippit wi' ease,

Then he march'd thro' the house, he march'd but, he

march'd ben,

Like ower mony mae o' our great-little men,

That I leugh clean outright, for I couldna contain,

He was sic a conceit sic an ancient-like wean.

But mid a' his daffin' sic kindness he shows,

That he's dear to my heart as the dew to the rose;
And the unclouded hinnie-beam aye in his ee,

Mak's him every day dearer and dearer to me.

Though fortune be saucy, and dorty, and dour,

And gloom through her fingers, like hills through a shower, When bodies ha'e got a bit bairn o' their ain,

How he cheers up their hearts,-he's the wonderfu' wean.

WILLIE WINKIE.

WILLIAM MILLER.

WEE WILLIE WINKIE rins through the town,

Up stairs and doon stairs in his nicht-gown,

Tirling at the window, crying at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock?"

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Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben?

The cat's singing gray thrums to the sleeping hen,

The dog's spelder'd on the floor, and disna gi'e a cheep, But here's a waukrife laddie! that winna fa' asleep."

Onything but sleep, you rogue! glow'ring like the moon, Rattling in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock, Skirling like a kenna-what, wauk'ning sleeping fock.

"Hey, Willie Winkie-the wean's in a creel! Wambling aff a bodie's knee like a very eel,

Rugging at the cat's lug, and raveling a' her thrums— Hey, Willie Winkie-see, there he comes!"