I wrote a letter, and thus began;
Madam be not offended,

I'm o'er the lugs in love wi' you,

ando And care not though ye kend it:
For I get little frae the laird,

Jun. And far less frae my daddy,
And I wad blithely be the man

Toon Wad strive to please his lady.

11

She read the letter and she leughYe needna been sae blate, man, 10. You might hae come to me yoursel', wol And tauld me o' your state, man: You might hae come to me yoursel', Outwittens of ony body,

And made John Goukstone of the laird,

And kiss'd his bonnie lady.

Then she pat siller in my purse;
We drank wine in a cogie;
She fee'd a man to rub my horse,
And wow, but I was vogie!
But I gat ne'er sae sair a fleg
Since I came frae my daddy;
The laird came rap rap to the yett
When I was wi' his lady.

Then she put me behint a chair,

And happ'd me wi' a plaidie;

But I was like to swarf wi' fear,

And wish'd me wi' my daddie.
The laird gaed out, he saw na me,
I gaed when I was ready:
I promis'd, but I ne'er went back

To see his bonnie lady.

"A John Hunter, ancestor

Burns in his notes says, to a very respectable farming family who live at Barrmill, in the parish of Galston in Ayrshire, was the luckless hero who Had a horse, and had nae mair:' for some little youthful follies he found it necessary to make a retreat to the West Highlands, where he fee'd himself to a highland laird-for that is the expression of all the oral editions of the song I ever heard. The present Mr. Hunter who told me the anecdote is the great-grandchild of our hero." This note was written in 1795, twenty years after the publication of the song by David Herd. It seems surprising that such a song failed to obtain an earlier place in some of our collections, for it is an original and clever production.

THE YELLOW-HAIR'D LADDIE.

In April, when primroses paint the sweet plain,
And summer approaching rejoiceth the swain ;
The yellow-hair'd laddie would oftentimes go

To wilds and deep glens, where the hawthorn trees grow.

There, under the shade of an old sacred thorn,
With freedom he sung his loves ev'ning and morn:
He sung with so saft and enchanting a sound,
That Sylvans and Fairies unseen danc'd around.

The shepherd thus sung, Though young Maya be fair,
Her beauty is dash'd with a scornfu' proud air;
But Susie was handsome, and sweetly could sing,
Her breath like the breezes perfum'd in the spring;

That Madie in all the gay bloom of her youth,
Like the moon was inconstant, and never spoke truth:
But Susie was faithful, good-humour'd, and free,
And fair as the goddess who sprung from the sea;

That mamma's fine daughter with all her great dow'r,
Was awkwardly airy, and frequently sour:
Then, sighing, he wished, would parents agree,
The witty sweet Susie his mistress might be.

The beauty of the air and the happiness of the subject have united in giving popularity to a song which cannot rank high as poetry, and which outrages all superstitious knowledge by a dance of Sylvans and Fairies. Ramsay seems to have admired the air, since he wrote another song in the same measure for the "Gentle Shepherd," in which he has imitated the dramatic form of the earlier words, and imitated them with One of the verses is valuable, since we may suppose it records the poet's favourite songs:

some success.

Our Jenny sings saftly the "Cowden-broom knowes,"
And Rosie lilts sweetly the "Milking the Ewes;"
There's few "Jenny Nettles" like Nansie can sing,
At "Through the wood, Laddie!" Bess gars our lugs
ring:

But when my dear Peggy sings, with better skill,
"The Boatman," "Tweed Side," and "The Lass of the
Mill,"

'Tis many times sweeter and pleasant to me,

For though they sing nicely, they cannot like thee.

My Patie is a lover gay,

His mind is never muddy,

e-bod His breath is sweeter than new hay, *** His face is fair and ruddy.

His shape is handsome, middle size;

He's stately in his walking;

The shining of his een surprise;

Tis heaven to hear him talking.

Last night I met him on a bawk,
Where yellow corn was growing;
There mony a kindly word he spake,
That set my heart a-glowing.
He kiss'd, and vow'd he wad be mine,
And loo'd me best of ony;
That gars me like to sing sinsyne,
O corn-riggs are bonny!

Let maidens of a silly mind

Refuse what maist they're wanting,

Since we for yielding are design'd,

We chastely should be granting;
Then I'll comply, and marry Pate,
And syne my cockernony
He's free to touzle air or late

Where corn-riggs are bonny.