We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,

So dear can be, as thou to me,

My fair, my lovely charmer!

The attachment here was so nearly coincident with the "affair" with "Montgomerie's Peggy" that it might not be wrong to suppose that the poet forsook the one lass to pursue the other. Mrs. Begg, however, affirms that the passion with Peggy Thomson was revived. If it was so, it was only to be as suddenly broken again, though the poet did not cease for long afterwards to hold her in high esteem, if not also in tender regard. The second break, indeed, may have been due to the untoward event in the life of Elizabeth Paton (the mother of "dear bought Bess") his father's servant at Lochlie. Anyway, we find him writing to Thomas Orr in November, 1784:-"I am presently so cursedly taken in with an affair of gallantry, that I am very glad Peggy is off my hand. I don't choose to enter into particulars in writing, but never was a poor rakish rascal in a more pitiful taking." Peggy became the wife of a Mr. Neilson, of Kirkoswald, and Burns, when he was making ready for his departure to the West Indies in 1786, visited husband and wife to bid them both farewell. Mrs. Neilson he presented with a copy of his Poems, in which he inscribed the lines:

:

"Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear,
Sweet early object of my youthful vows,
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere.
Friendship! 'tis all cold duty now allows.

"And when you read the simple, artless rhymes,
One friendly sigh for him-he asks no more,
Who, distant, burns in flaming torrid climes,
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar."

Referring to the lines and their subject, in his MS. collection made for Captain Riddell, Burns says:-" "Twas the girl I mentioned in my letter to Dr. Moore, where I speak of taking the sun's altitude. Poor Peggy! Her husband is my old acquaintance, and a most worthy fellow. When I was taking leave of my Carrick relations, intending to go to the West Indies, when I took farewell of her, neither she nor I could speak a syllable. Her husband escorted me three miles on my road, and we both parted with tears."

The whole, and especially the latter part, goes to show in a remarkable way how Burns could be off with a lass as a lover and yet not cease to cherish her as a friend, commanding her friendship and the confidence and esteem of her husband as well. Only a large-hearted, honest, and open-minded, however wayward, man, surely could do so.

JEAN AND ANNIE RONALD

In a

WHEN, at Whitsunday, in 1777, the Burns family removed from Mount Oliphant to Lochlie, or Lochlea, in the parish of Tarbolton, Robert was in his nineteenth year, and already getting so well rid of his native bashfulness that he was found ready and eager to join freely in every social enjoyment which involved a mixing of the sexes. short time his mind was "fashed" with serious thoughts of entering the married state, and his eye was on every lass in the parish, yet he could discriminate, and saw some of the Tarbolton lasses less to be loved than laughed at. Five, at least, he pillories in verse as outwith the region of hopeful consideration, writing

"If ye gae up to yon hill-tap,

Ye'll there see bonnie Peggy;
She kens her father is a laird,
And she forsooth 's a leddy.

"There Sophy tight, a lassie bright,
Besides a handsome fortune:
Wha canna win her in a night,
Has little art in courting.

"Gae down by Faile, and taste the ale,
And tak' a look o' Mysie;

She's dour and din, a deil within,

But aiblins she may please ye.

"If she be shy, her sister try,

Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny,

If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense

She kens hersel she's bonnie.

66

As ye gae up by yon hill-side,

Speer in for bonnie Bessy;

She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light,
And handsomely address ye.

There's few sae bonnie, nane sae gude,

In a' King George' dominion;

If ye should doubt the truth o' this-
It's Bessy's ain opinion!"

One who was his companion in these early days, and long survived him, declared that he "composed a song on almost every tolerable looking lass in the parish." Two, who together engaged his muse, if not his heart, were the sisters Jean and Annie Ronald, concerning whom he composed

THE RONALDS OF THE BENNALS.

In Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men,
And proper young lasses and a', man ;

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals,
They carry the gree frae them a', man.

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare 't,
Braid money to tocher them a', man,

To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man.

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen
As bonnie a lass or as braw, man;

But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best,
And a conduct that beautifies a', man.

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine,
The mair admiration they draw, man;
While peaches and cherries, and roses and lilies,
They fade and they wither awa, man.

If ye be for Miss Jean, tak' this frae a frien',

A hint o' a rival or twa, man,

The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire,
If that wad entice her awa, man,

The Laird o' Braehead has been on his speed,
For mair than a towmond or twa, man,
The Laird o' the Ford will straught on a board
If he canna get her at a', man.

Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin,
The boast of our bachelors a', man;
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete,
She steals our affections awa, man.

If I should detail the pick and the wale
O'lasses that live here awa, man,

The fau't wad be mine, if they didna shine,
The sweetest and best o' them a', man.

I lo'e her mysel', but darena weel tell,
My poverty keeps me in awe, man,
For making o' rhymes, and working at times,
Does little or naething at a', man.

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse,

Nor ha'e 't in her power to say na, man, For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure, My stomach's as proud as them a', man.

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride,
And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man,
I can haud up my head wi' the best o' the breed,
Though fluttering ever so braw, man.

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best,
O' pairs o' guid breeks I ha'e twa, man,
And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps,
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man.

My sarks they are few, but five o' them new,
Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man,

A ten-shillings hat, a Holland cravat;
There are no mony poets sae braw, man,