Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

I have removed from this fine song the idle encumbrance of an adopted chorus; it interrupted the flow of the narrative, and was at open war with the sentiment of each verse. The chorus was joyous and the song mournful. It is one of the earliest printed lyrics of Burns.

O WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL.

O were I on Parnassus' hill!

Or had of Helicon

my

fill;

That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee.
But Nith maun be my muse's well,
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel';
On Corsincon I'll glow'r and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay,
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day

I cou❜dna sing, I cou'dna say

How much, how dear I love thee.

I see thee dancing o'er the green,

Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—

By heaven and earth I love thee!

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And aye I muse and sing thy name;
I only live to love thee.

Tho' I were doom'd to wander on
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,

Till my last weary sand was run,

Till then-and then I'll love thee.

Burns wrote this song when he first became a dweller on the banks of the Nith; and he wrote it in honour of Mrs. Burns. I have heard the introduction of the heathen hill and fount of poetic inspiration censured as pedantic; but they are mentioned only in a half-serious and half-comic way, that the poet may give preference to the stream of Nith and the hill of Corsincon. The second verse contains one of those happy strokes for which the poet is unrivalled-he gazes on the image of life and loveliness which his fancy presents till he can contain himself no longer, and exclaims, after making an inventory of various perfections, "By heaven and earth I love thee!"

VOL. IV.

D

WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T.

First when Maggie was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married-spier nae mair—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was nature's child-
Wiser men than me's beguil'd;
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

How we live, my Meg and me,
How we love and how we 'gree,
I carena by how few may see ;-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
Wha I wish were maggots' meat,
Dish'd up in her winding sheet,

I could write-but Meg maun see't—
Whistle o'er the lave o't.

No lady would be thought ambitious who wished to be considered the heroine of this brief and pithy song. Burns wrote it as a speculation upon matrimonial happiness, and with the wish of supplanting the ancient song of "Whistle o'er the lave o't," which it has not

wholly succeeded in accomplishing. The old song is still living, though scarcely worthy of existence :

She sent her daughter to the well,

Better she had gane hersell;

She missed a foot, and down she fell

Whistle o'er the lave o't.

And so it goes on, meaning much more than it openly

expresses.

THE PLAID AMANG THE HEATHER.

The wind blew hie owre muir and lea,
And dark and stormy grew the weather;
The rain rain'd sair; nae shelter near
my love's plaid amang the heather.

But

Close to his breast he held me fast;-
Sae cozie, warm, we lay thegither ;
Nae simmer heat was half sae sweet
As my luve's plaid amang the heather!

'Mid wind and rain he tauld his tale;
My lightsome heart grew like a feather:

It lap sae quick I cou'dna speak,

But silent sigh'd amang the heather.

The storm blew past ;—we kiss'd in haste ;
my mither ;

I hameward ran and tauld

She gloom'd at first, but soon confest

The bowls row'd right amang the heather.

Now Hymen's beam gilds bank and stream,
Whare Will and I fresh flowers will gather-
Nae storms I fear, I've got my dear

Kind-hearted lad amang the heather.

This I believe is not a popular song; nor is it one of those compositions for which the author has shown any particular regard, or his admirers any marked affection. Neither has it much novelty of sentiment or originality of conception to recommend it. Nevertheless, for flowing ease and natural felicity of expression, it surpasses any of the other songs of Hector Macneill. A lover's plaid, and a bed of heath, are favourite topics with the northern Muse; when the heather is in bloom it is worthy of becoming the couch of beauty. A sea of brown blossom, undulating as far as the eye can reach, and swarming with wild-bees, is a fine sight.