It's no its loud roar, on the wintry wind swellin', The dark days o' winter were simmer to me. The second verse of the " Braes o' Gleniffer" is exceedingly beautiful and natural. The season of flowers was departed, the song of the mavis was mute, and nothing was seen but a waste of snow and the birds, as they chirped and flitted from bough to bough, shaking the snow-drift from their wings. The chief excellence, and the greatest fault, of Tannahill are exemplified in this song. His inanimate nature is far too luxuriant for his animated nature-he smothers his heroes and heroines in the very garments with which more judicious poets seek only to dress them. MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. O meikle thinks my love o' my beauty, My tocher's the jewel has charms for him. VOL. IV. K Your proffer o' love's an airle-penny, Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. And ye'll crack your credit wi' mair nor me. Burns has painted the heroine of this clever song as a shrewd and considerate damsel. Her acquaintance with the saving-knowledge of proverbs, and her natural acuteness, enable her to penetrate into the views of her lover: she is not so unwilling to become his wife, as she is exasperated at the attempt to overreach a lady of her sagacity. His craft is confronted by her cunning;-what a treat their conversation must have been! But I am forgetting that they are only imaginary personages,-in such natural and lively colours has the poet painted them. In the last verse the poet seems to have remembered some old lines: Where will our gudeman lie Till he shoot o'er the simmer? Up aboon the hen bawks Among the rotten timmer. THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE. I see a form, I see a face, Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, The kind love that's in her ee. A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, It may escape the courtly sparks, Burns imagined that he had his propitious season for lyric composition. Autumn, he confessed, exercised a strong influence over his spirit; and that whenever the corn ripened, and the reapers assembled, he ascended into the region of song. A mind naturally poetic, like that of Burns, had the elements of verse ever ready for use, had an earnest call been made: a genius which flourishes only during a particular season seems like a flower which gives its bloom to the spring, and its withered leaves to the rest of the year. This song is one of his autumnal productions; and indeed it is worthy of any season. It parodies, for the chorus, the old song of "This is no my ain house," but it carries the resemblance no farther; and were the chorus dismissed altogether, the song would be no sufferer. TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY. Yestreen I met you on the moor, But fient a hair care I.. O Tibbie, I hae seen the day I doubtna, lass, but ye may think, But sorrow take him that's sae mean, Although his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean That looks sae proud and high. Although a lad were e'er sae smart, But if he hae the name o' gear, But, Tibbie, lass, take my advice; Your daddy's gear makes you sae nice: The deil a ane wad spier your price Were ye as poor as I. There lives a lass in yonder park, |