And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that loved me dearly!
But still within my bosom's care
Shall live my Highland Mary!

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.

John Anderson, my dear John
When we were first acquaint
Your locks were like the raven
And you were not a Saint;

Yet now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snow,
But blessing on your frosty head,
John Anderson, My Jo.

John Anderson, my dear Jo,
We climbed the hill together,
And many a merry day, John,
We had with one another;
Now we must totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go
And sleep together at the foot,
John Anderson, my Jo.

AFTON WATER.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green Braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lap-wing, thy screaming forbear;
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
Far marked with the courses of clear winding rills,

There daily I wander as noon rises high,

My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;
There, oft, as mild evening glows over the lea,
The sweet-scented birch shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream Afton, how lofty it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides,
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave

As gathering sweet flowers she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, the theme of my lays,
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream;
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!

During the perambulating escapades of Burns through the Highlands, visiting noted mountains, lakes, rivers, falls, castles, ruined abbeys and hospitable mansions, he pictures thus in a letter, June 28th, 1787, to Mr. Ainslie, a drinking spree and a ludicrous, thrilling horse race, with a native peasant, after a day and night of social debauchery:

"On our return at a Highland gentleman's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal movements; the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels at intervals; then we flew at Bab at the Browster, Tullochgorum, Loch Erroch side, etc., like midges sporting in the sun, or crows prognosticating a storm in a harvest day.

"When the dear lassies left us we ranged round the bowl till the good-fellow hour of six: except a few minutes that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top of Ben Lomond. We all

kneeled; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl; each man a full glass in his hand; and I, as priest, repeated some rhyming nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies I suppose. After a small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on Loch Lomond, and reached Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at another goodfellow's house, and consequently pushed the bottle; when we went out to mount our horses we found ourselves "Not very fully but gayly yet." My two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch-side, till up came a Highlandman at a gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, whip and spur. My companions, though seemingly gayly mounted, fell sadly astern; but my old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past the Highlandman in spite of all his efforts, with the hair halter; just as I was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, and threw this rider into a clipt hedge, and down came Jenny Geddes over all, and my bardship between her and the Highlandman's horse."

TAM O'SHANTER.

The night drove on with songs and clatter,
And all the ale was growing better,

The land-lady and Tam grew gracious,
With favors secret, sweet and precious,
The Cobbler told his queerest stories,
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus,
The storm without might roar and rustle-
Tam did not mind the storm and whistle!
Care-mad to see a man so happy,
Even drown himself among the nappy!
As bees fly home with loads of treasure
The minutes winged their way with pleasure;

Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious,
O'er all the ills of life victorious!

But pleasures are like poppies spread-
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed,
Or like the snowfall in the river-
A moment white, then melts forever!

LEAVING EDINBURGH.

ELLISLAND.

LETTERS

AND POETRY.

The various flirtations of Burns with the fair sex, in country, town and city, would make a volume, as told in his prose and poetic fulminations, but the best of those fantastic escapades are bad, and therefore partial silence for each party is charity for all!

The mind and body of Burns were balanced on a see-saw when making love professions in verse to the grass-widow, "Clarinda" and Jean Armour, his plighted and honest wife.

The following songs composed in the winter of 1788, when sporting about the "rotten row" of Edinburgh, will show the impartiality of the passion of "Sylvander:"

CLARINDA.

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,

The measured time is run!

The wretch beneath the dreary pole

So marks his latest sun.

To what dark care of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;

Deprived of thee, his love and light,
The sun of all his joy.

We part, but by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!

No other light shall guide my steps

Till thy bright beams arise.

She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blessed my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Of all the airs the wind can blow,
I dearly love the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I love best:

There wild woods grow and rivers roll,

And many a hill between;

But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever with my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair,

I hear her in the tuneful birds,

I hear her charm the air;

There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, wood or green,

There's not a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me of my Jean!

To the credit of Burns let it be said, that he quickly forgot "Clarinda," and openly married Jean Armour a few months later, and began farm life, in another brave effort to reform the razzle-dazzle conduct of vanished and wasted years.

After spending a second winter in Edinburgh, Burns was convinced that the scholars and aristocracy of the Scotch Capital had given him what is commonly called "The cold shoulder," and he began to look around for some work by which he could make a living.