Young Robie was the brawest lad,

That turn'd the maute in yon town-cn',
And he had owsen, sheep and kye,

And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc'd wi Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.*

And as she wrought her country wark,
Her life was nought but care and pain;
Yet kendna what her ail could be,
Or what wad ease her heart again.

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her ee,
When Robie tauld a tale o' love,
Ae e'enin on the lily lea?

While mony a bird sang sweet o' love,

And many a flower bloomed o'er the dale,

His cheek to her's he aft did lay,

And whisper'd thus his tender tale.†

The following verse, which Burns asked Thomson if it was not original, is not in the MS.

As in the bosom o' the stream

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love,
Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.

+ In the printed copy.

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to her's he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

And canst thou think to fancy me?
And wilt thou leave thy country wark,

And learn to turn the maute wi' me?

Thy handsome foot thou shalt na set
In barn or byre, to trouble thee;
But sit on a cushion and sew at thy seam
And learn to turn the maute wi' me.*

Now Jeanie wist na what to say,
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a kind consent,
And bliss was aye between them twa.

["The above ballad I think in my best style."-BURNS.

The heroine of "this exquisite song," as Mr. Cunningham calls it, was Miss Jean M'Murdo (now Mrs. Crauford), the eldest daughter of Burns' kind friend Mr. M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig; "I have not painted her," says the poet, "in the rank which she holds in life, but in the dress and character of a cottager." It was written in 1789, and sent with a letter to the mother of the young lady, (Works, vol. vii. p. 35.) but does not appear to have been published till 1793, when the poet sent it to George Thomson, greatly altered in language from the copy given to Mrs. M'Murdo. (Works, v. p. 88.) The Editor has printed from the MS. copy, that no thoughts of such a great man or such a Leautiful and simple ballad should be lost.]

* In the printed copy.

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me.

VOL. II.

R

GROVES O' SWEET MYRTLE.

ROBERT BURNS.

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,
Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume;
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,
Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom.
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers,
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen:
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,

And cauld, Caledonia's blast on the wave;

Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace,

What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave!

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains,
Save love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.

[The Bonnie Jean of this fine song, was Mrs. Burns.]

AULD LANG SYNE.

ROBERT BURNS.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne!

We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu't the gowans fine;

But we've wandered mony a weary foot,

Sin auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae mornin' sun till dine:

But seas between us braid hae roar'd,

Sin auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fere,

And gie's a haud o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught,

For auld lang syne?

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne!

["Auld Lang Syne," Burns introduced to George Thomson and Mrs. Dunlop, as the work of an old heaven-inspired poet; which he (Burns) had taken down from an old man's singing. The starting note of the song is old, of the rest the author is well known.]

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

ROBERT BURNS.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,

Our toils obscure and a' that,
The rank is but the guinea stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin-grey, and a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that;

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.