COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

Jenny's a' wat poor lassie,

Jenny's seldom dry;

She's draggled a' her petticoat,

Coming through the rye.

Nae moon was shining in the lift,

And ne'er a body nigh;

What gaur'd ye weet yere petticoat,
Coming through the rye?

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the broom;

Gin a body kiss a body,

Need a body gloom.
Yestreen I met a cannie lad,
A flowery bank was nigh,

I lay a blink, and counted stars,
And what the waur am I.

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the parish ken.

I loe a bonnie lad o'er weel

To let him wail and sigh; A kiss is aye a kindlie thing, And what the waur am 1.

I know of no song, with the exception of Johnie Cope, which has so many variations as "Coming through the rye." Some are decorous and discreet, and some are free and gross, while others unite these two characters in a very curious manner. The heroine, indeed, seems to care as little about exposing her person to the evening dews, as she regards the fruits of the earth. I have ever observed that the Scottish peasantry have a great regard for corn and all manner of crops; and to tread them wantonly down, or make idle roads through them, is deemed a destruction of "God's gude living." In this feeling Jenny seems not to have shared. Of the many variations a specimen may be given:

Gin a body meet a body

Coming through the rye,

Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a body
Coming frae the well,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body tell?

I see that in the Museum a copy containing much that is old is ascribed to Burns. I know not on what authority it is imputed to him. Ignorance has often put my favourite poet into coarse company.

MY LOVER HAS LEFT ME.

My lover has left me,

Wot ye the cause why?

He has gowd, he has mailens

No mailens have I;

But whether I win him,

Or wear him, or no,

I can give a sigh for him,
And e'en let him go.

His flocks may all perish,
His gowd may all flee,
Then his new love will leave him
As he has left me.

O, meeting is pleasure,

And sundering is grief;

But a faithless lover

Is worse than a thief.

A thief will but rob me,

Take all that I have,

But a faithless lover

Brings ane to their grave:
The grave it will rot me,
And bring me to dust-
O! an inconstant lover

May woman ne'er trust!

I cannot find an older copy of this touching song than that printed in Johnson's Musical Museum, yet I am certain that the larger portion of it is very old. Like all old lyrics, it may have been injured or improved during its oral transmission through several ages, till it found sanctuary in Johnson. I wish I could know if the chorus, which is at open variance with the sense and feeling of the song, has always belonged to it. Only imagine the pathetic complaint of the forsaken maiden mixed up with such lines as these:

Whether I get him, whether I get him,
Whether I get him or no--

I care not three farthings

Whether I get him or no.

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY.

Cauld sweeps the wind frae east to west,
The drift drives sharp and sairly;
Sae loud and shrill I hear the blast,
I'm sure it's winter fairly:

O, up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early;

When Criffel puts on her hood o' snaw,
It maun be winter fairly.

Some love the din o' the dancer's feet,
To the music leaping rarely;

Some love the kiss and the stolen word,
Wi' the lass that loves them dearly;
But I love best the weel-made bed,
Spread warm, and feal, and fairly,
For up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early.

O, spring-time is a pleasant time,
When green the grass is growing;
And summer it is sweeter still,

When sun-warm streams are flowing;
But winter it is thrice as sweet,
When frosts bite sharp and sairly,

Up in the morning's no for me,
Up in the morning early.

The thrush sits chittering on the thorn,

The sparrow

dines but sparely;

The crow longs for the time o' corn

I'm sure it's winter fairly.

The plough stands frozen in the fur',

And down the snow comes rarely—

Up in the morning's no for me,

Up in the morning early.

The air of these words is old, and so is much of the song. Burns trimmed it for the Museum; and since that