And ilka bird sang o' its luve,
And fondly sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Fu' sweet upon3 its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose
Upon a morn in June;

And sae I flourish'd on the morn,
And sae was pu'd on noon.

VAR. 3 Frae aff.

4 staw the.

an Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard it in Ireland among the old women; while, on the other hand, a Countess informed me, that the first person who introduced the air into this country was a Baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult then to ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and music! I, myself, have lately seen a couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen them."

66

According to an Ayrshire ballad," says Allan Cunningham, "the heroine was Miss Kennedy, of Dalgarrock, a young creature, beautiful and accomplished, who fell a victim to her love for M'Dougall, of Logan."

GLOOMY DECEMBER.‡

ANCE mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
Sad' was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure,
Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour;
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever,

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure.
Wild as the winter now tearing the forest,
Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown,
Such is the tempest has taken my bosom,
Since my last hope and my
comfort is gone;

Allan Cunningham says, "Clarinda inspired these verses, and they are worthy of her merits, personal and mental."

The following letter, which is now for the first time printed, throws some light on them :

Dear Madam,-I have written so often to you and have got no answer, that I had resolved never to lift up a pen to you again, but this eventful day, the sixth of December, recalls to my memory such a scene! Heaven and earth! when I remember a far distant person!--but no more of this, until I learn from you a proper address, and why my letters have lain by you unanswered, as this is the third I have sent you. The opportunities will be all gone now, I fear, of sending over the book I mentioned in my last. Do not

Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December,
Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember,
Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.

BEHOLD THE HOUR.*

TUNE- ORAN-GAOIL.'

BEHOLD the hour, the boat arrive!

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart:
Sever'd from thee can I survive?

But fate has will'd, and we must part!
I'll often greet this surging swell;

Yon distant isle will often hail : "E'en here I took the last farewell;

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail."

write me for a week, as I shall not be at home; but as soon after that as possible.

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December!
Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care;
Dire was the parting thou bids me remember,
Parting wi' Nancy, oh! ne'er to meet mair.

Dec. 6, 1792.
"Yours,
B―.
"To Miss Mary Peacock, care of Mrs. Ridley, Jacks
Closs, Cannongate, Edinburgh."

* Burns wrote to Thomson in September, 1793," The following song I have composed for Oran-gaoil,' the Highland air that you tell me, in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in your book. I have this moment finished the song; so you have it glowing from the mint. If it suit you, well! if not, 'tis also well!"

Along the solitary shore,

While flitting sea-fowls round me cry, Across the rolling, dashing roar,

66

I'll westward turn my wistful eye:
Happy, thou Indian grove," I'll say,
"Where now my Nancy's path may be!
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray,
O tell me, does she muse on me?"

WILLIE'S WIFE.t

TUNE-TIBBIE FOWLER IN THE GLEN.'

WILLIE WASTLE dwalt on Tweed,
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie,
Willie was a wabster guid,

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie;
He had a wife was dour and din,
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither;

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gie a button for her.

+ Allan Cunningham suggests that the hero of this song owes his name to that doughty personage who replied to the summons of Oliver Cromwell:

I'm Willie o' the Wastle,

I'll keep in my castle;

and that the heroine was the wife of a farmer who lived near Burns at Ellisland, of whom he relates some anecdotes which shew that she was a half crazy termagant.

She has an ee, she has but ane,

The cat has twa the very colour; Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump,

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; A whiskin beard about her mou,

Her nose and chin they threaten ither;
Sic a wife, &c.

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein shinn'd,
Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter ;
She's twisted right, she's twisted left,
To balance fair in ilka quarter:
She has a hump upon her breast,
The twin o' that upon her shouther;
Sic a wife, &c.

Auld baudrans by the ingle sits,

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; But Willie's wife is nae sae trig,

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; Her walie nieves like midden-creels, Her face wad fyle the Logan-water;

Sic a wife as Willie had,

I wad na gie a button for her.