The feather'd people you might see
Perch'd all around on every tree,
In notes of sweetest melody

They hail the charming Chloe;

Till, painting gay the eastern skies,
The glorious sun began to rise,
Out-rivall'd by the radiant

eyes

Of youthful, charming Chloe.
Lovely was she, &c.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

TUNE DUNCAN GRAY.'

LET not woman e'er complain
Of inconstancy in love;
Let not woman e'er complain,
Fickle man is apt to rove :

Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange,

Man should then a monster prove?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow:

Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.

Why then ask of silly man,

To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can-
You can be no more, you know.

O PHILLY.*

TUNE-THE SOW'S TAIL.'

HE.

O PHILLY, happy be that day
When, roving through the gather'd hay,
My youthfu' heart was stown away,
And by thy charms, my Philly.

SHE.

O Willy, aye I bless the grove

Where first I own'd my maiden love,
Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers above
To be my ain dear Willy.

son:

* On the 19th November, 1794, Burns wrote to Thom"You see, my dear sir, what a punctual correspondent I am; though indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, I finished my duet which you were pleased to praise so much. Whether I have uniformly succeeded, I will not say; but here it is for you, though it is not an hour old."

According to Thomson," the heroine was Miss Phillis M'Murdo, of Drumlanrig. Whether the Poet had any person in his eye for Willy,' he had not," he said, "been able to ascertain."

HE.

As songsters of the early year
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear,
So ilka day to me mair dear
And charming is my Philly.

SHE.

As on the brier the budding rose
Still richer breathes and fairer blows,

So in my tender bosom grows
The love I bear my Willy.

HE.

The milder sun and bluer sky,
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy,
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye
As is a sight o' Philly.

SHE.

The little swallow's wanton wing,
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring,
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring,
As meeting o' my Willy.

HE.

The bee that thro' the sunny hour
Sips nectar in the opening flower,
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor,
Upon the lips o' Philly.

SHE.

The woodbine in the dewy weet
When evening shades in silence meet,
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet
As is a kiss o' Willy.

HE.

Let fortune's wheel at random rin,

And fools may tyne, and knaves may win;
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane,
And that's my ain dear Philly.

SHE.

What's a' the joys that gowd can gie!
I care na wealth a single flie;
The lad I love's the lad for me,
And that's my ain dear Willy.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

A BALLAD.

THERE was three Kings into the east,
Three Kings both great and high,
An' they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

This Ballad was first printed in the second edition of Burns' Works in 1787, where he says, "it was partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name," and he made no alterations in it in his last edition of 1794.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,

And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To shew their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

Mr. Cunningham considers that "the merit of originality belongs to the old bard; some of the verses are word for word the same, and those which are altered, have suffered little change in the sentiment. The version of Burns is more consistent, but not more graphic than the old strain."