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The powers aboon can only ken,

To whom the heart is seen,
That nane can be sae dear to me

As my sweet lovely Jean.*

SONG.

BURNS.

TUNE_Humours of Glen. Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon,

Where bright-beaming summers exhale the perfume; Far dearer to me's yon lone vale o' green

breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the long 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-list'ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Though 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 wind on his mountains,

Save love's willing fetters, the chains of his Jean.t

* Burns wrote this song in compliment to Mrs Burns during their honeymoon. The air, with many others of equal beauty, was the composition of a Mr Marshall, who, in Burns's time, was butler to the Duke of Gordon.

This beautiful song-beautiful for both its amatory and its patriotic sentiment seems to have been composed by Burns during the period when he was courting the lady who afterwards became his wife. The present generation is much interested in this lady, and deservedly; as, in addition to her poetical history, which is an extremely interesting one, she is a personage of the greatest private worth, and in every respect deserving to be esteemed as the widow of Scotland's best and most endeared bard. The

THE BRISK YOUNG LAD.

TUNE-Bung your eye in the morning.
There cam a young man to my daddie's door,
My daddie's door, my daddie's door ;
There cam a young man to my daddie's door,
Cam seeking me to woo.

And wow ! but he was a braw young lad,
A brisk young lad, and a
And wow ! but he was a braw young lad,

Cam seeking me to woo.

braw young

lad;

But I was baking when he came,
When he came, when he came ;
I took him in and gied him a scone,

To thowe his frozen mou.

I set him in aside the bink ;
I
gae

bim bread and ale to drink ;
And ne'er a blythe styme wad he blink,

Until his wame was fou.

following anecdote will perhaps be held as testifying, in no inconsiderable degree, to a quality which she may not hitherto have been supposed to possess-her wit.

It is generally known, that Mrs Burns has, ever since her husband's death, occupied exactly the same house in Dumfries, which she inhabited before that event, and that it is customary for strangers, who happen to pass through or visit the town, to pay their respects to her, with or without letters of introduction, precisely as they do to the churchyard, the bridge, the harbour, or any other public object of curiosity about the place. A gay young English gentleman one day visited Mrs Burns, and after he had seen all that she had to show-the bedroom in which the poet died, his original portrait by Nasmyth, his family-bible, with the names and birth-days of himself, his wife, and children, written on a blank-leaf by his own hand, and some other little trifles of the same nature-he proceeded to intreat that she would have the kindness to present him with some relic of the poet, which he might carry away with him, as a wonder, to show in his own country, “ Indeed, sir," said Mrs Burns, “ I have given away so many relics of Mr Burns, that, to tell ye the truth, I have not one left.” — " oh, you must surely have something," said the persevering Saxon ;

any thing will do-any little scrap of his handwriting—the least thing you please. All I want is just a relic of the poet; and any thing, you know, will do for a relic." Some further altercation took place, the lady reasserting that she had no relic to give, and he as repeatedly renewing his request. At length, fairly tired out with the man's importunities, Mrs Burns said to him, with a smile, “ 'Deed, sir, unless ye tak mysell, then, I dinna see how you are to get what you want; for, really, I'm the only relic o' him that i ken o'.” The petitioner at once withdrew his request.

Gae, get you gone, you cauldrife wooer,
Ye sour-looking, cauldrife wooer !
I straghtway show'd him to the door,

Saying, Come nae mair to woo.

There lay a deuk-dub before the door,
Before the door, before the door ;
There lay a deuk-dub before the door,

And there fell be, I trow !

Out cam the guidman, and high he shouted ;
Out cam the guidwife, and laigh she louted ;
And a' the toun-neebors were gather'd about it ;

And there lay be, I trow !
Then out cam I, and sneer'd and smiled;
Ye cam to woo, but ye're a' beguiled ;
Ye've fa'en i' the dirt, and ye're a' befyled ;

We'll hae nae mair o' you !*

WEBSTER'S LINES.

Oh, how could I venture to love one like thee,
And you not despise a poor conquest like me,
On lords, thy admirers, could look wi' disdain,
And knew I was naething, yet pitied my pain ?
You said, while they teased you with nonsense and dress,
When real the passion, the vanity's less ;
You saw through that silence which others despise,
And, while beaux were a-talking, read love in my eyes.

Oh, how shall I fauld thee, and kiss a'thy charms,
Till, fainting wi' pleasure, I die in your arms;
Through all the wild transports of ecstasy tost,
Till, sinking together, together we're lost !

* From Herd's Collection, 1776.

Oh, where is the maid that like thee ne'er can cloy, Whose wit can enliven each dull pause of joy ; And when the short raptures are all at an end, From beautiful mistress turn sensible friend ?

In vain do I praise thee, or strive to reveal,
(Too nice for expression,) what only we feel :
In a' that ye do, in each look and each mien,
The graces in waiting adorn you unseen.
When I see you I love you, when hearing adore ;
I wonder and think you a woman no more :
Till, mad wi' admiring, I canna contain,
And, kissing your lips, you turn woman again.
With thee in my bosom, how can I despair ?
I'll gaze on thy beauties, and look awa care ;
I'll ask thy advice, when with troubles opprest,
Which never displeases, but always is best.
In all that I write I'll thy judgment require ;
Thy wit shall correct what thy charms did inspire.
I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth is all o’er,
And then live in friendship, when passion's no more.*

* This impassioned lyric is said to have been the composition of Dr Alexander Webster, one of the ministers of Edinburgh, who died in 1784. There is a tradition, that he wrote it in early life, in consequence of a lady of superior rank, whom he was engaged to woo for another, condescending to betray a passion for him. He was a young man about the year 1710, when he was distinguished by his concern in a strange species of religious madness, which possessed the people of Cambuslang in Lanarkshire, generally termed “ The Cambuslang Wark." I subjoin a different and less

copious version, copied from the Scots Ma. gazine for November, 1747. It is probable that this is the author's first draught of the song, and that it never was printed in any shape before.

0, how could I venture to love one like thee,
Or thou not despise a poor conquest like me!
On lords thy admirers could look with disdain,
And though I was nothing, yet pity my pain !
You said, when they teased you with nonsense and dress,
When real the passion, the vanity's less;
You saw through that silence which others despise,
And, while beaux were prating, read love in my eyes.
Oh! where is the nymph that like thee ne'er can cloy,
Whose wit can enliven the dull pause of joy ;.
And, when the sweet tran ort is all at an end,
From beautiful mistress turn sensible friend!

COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.

MACNIEL.

TUNE_Johnny M‘Gill.

Come under my plaidie ; the night's gaun to fa';
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw :
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me;
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me;
I'll bap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw :
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me ;
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.

'wa.

Gae 'wa wi' yere plaidie ! auld Donald, gae 'wa;
I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw !
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie ! I'll no sit beside ye;
Ye micht be my gutcher 1 auld Donald, gae
I'm gaun to meet Johnnie-he's young and he's bonnie;
He's been at Meg's bridal, fou trig and fou braw !
Nane dances sae lichtly, sae gracefu', or tichtly,
His cheek's like the new rose, bis brow's like the snaw!

Dear Marion, let that flee stick to the wa’;
Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava;
The haill o' his pack he has now on his back ;
He's thretty, and I am but three score and twa.
Be frank now and kindly—I'll busk ye aye finely;
To kirk or to market there'll few gang sae braw;

When I see thee I love thee, but hearing adore,
I wonder and think you a woman no more;
Till mad with admiring, I cannot contain,
And kissing those lips, find you woman again.
In all that I write I'll thy judgment require;
Thy taste shall correct what thy love did inspire.
I'll kiss thee and press thee till youth is all o'er,
And then live on friendship, when passion's no more.

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