Rev. Dr. Strachan of Carnwath-a clever man and a skilful musician: but in Scotland every thing above the mark of a common capacity is attributed to the minister of the parish. The name of the song appears in Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany. I think this is nearly decisive of Dr. Strachan's claim. Tintock is the name of a high hill near Biggar.

MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S GAIRS
UPON'T.

My lady's gown there's gairs upon't,
And gowden flowers sae rare upon't;
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet,
My lord thinks muckle mair upon't.

My lord a hunting he is gane,

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane;

By Colin's cottage lies his game,

If Colin's Jenny be at hame.

My lady's white, my lady's red,
And kith and kin o' Cassilis' blude,
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher gude
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed.

Out o'er yon moor, out o'er yon moss,
Whare gor-cocks through the heather pass;
There wons auld Colin's bonny lass,
A lily in a wilderness.

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs,
Like music notes o' lover's hymns:
The diamond dew is her een sae blue,
Where laughing love sae wanton swims.

My lady's dink, my lady's drest,
The flower and fancy o' the west;
But the lassie that man lo'es the best,
O that's the lass to mak him blest.

In the Museum this clever song is wholly ascribed to Burns; and though Johnson often mistook the lyrics which the poet transcribed for his own inspirations, there can be little doubt that it owes its chief attractions to his happy pen. In some of the verses, and in the conception of the song, I think I see an antique spirit at work and I am more inclined to believe that Burns renewed and reanimated a provincial fragment, than that he imagined and wrote the song wholly from his own fancy and feelings.

MALLIE'S MEEK, MALLIE'S SWEET.

O Mallie's meek, Mallie's sweet,

Mallie's modest and discreet,

Mallie's rare, Mallie's fair,

Mallie's every way complete.

As I was walking up the street

A bare-foot maid I chanced to meet

Cold is the day and hard the way,

Fair maiden, for thy tender feet.

O Mallie's sweet, Mallie's meek,
Mallie's modest and discreet,
Mallie's rare, Mallie's fair,

Mallie's chaste, and Mallie's sweet.
It were more meet that these fine feet

Were weel laced up in silken shoon ; And 'twere more fit that thou shouldst sit Within yon chariot gilt aboon.

O Mallie fair and Mallie rare!

I'd sail the sea, and roam the land,

And swim yon firth, or gird the earth,

For ae wave of thy gentle hand:

Thy yellow hair beyond compare

Comes trinkling down thy swan-white neck;

And thy two eyes, like stars in skies,

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck.

The name of Burns accompanies this song in the Museum; and though I have no wish to advise a separation, I cannot help expressing my sorrow at the imprudence or ignorance of Johnson in adding the name of the great poet to all the hasty verses and amended songs which he so willingly and profusely communicated. The present song is a very beautiful one; and though the conception and some of the lines belong to an earlier period, the charms by which it seizes on our heart and fancy are the work of Burns.

THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED TO ME.

When Januar' winds were blawing cauld,

As to the north I bent my way,

The mirksome night did me infauld,
I kentna where to lodge till day;
By my good luck a lass I met,

Just in the middle of my care;
And kindly she did me invite

To walk into a chamber fair.

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And thank'd her for her courtesie ;

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid,
And bade her mak a bed for me.

She made the bed baith wide and braid,

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; She put the cup to her rosy lips,

And drank, Young man, now sleep ye sound.

She snatch'd the candle in her hand,
And frae my chamber went wi' speed,
But I ca'd her quickly back again,
To lay some mair below my head.
She laid a pillow 'neath my head,
And served me wi' due respect;
And to salute her wi' a kiss,

I put my arms about her neck.

Her hair was like the links o' gowd,
Her teeth were like the ivory,
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine,
The lass that made the bed to me.
Her bosom was the driven snaw,

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see;
Her limbs the polish'd marble stane,
The lass that made the bed to me.

I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
And she wistna what to say;
I laid her 'tween me and the wa';

aye

The lassie thought na lang till day. I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne, While the tear stood twinklin in her ee: