Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. Tho' it were ten thousand mile. There is an old Nithsdale song which seems to have suggested to Burns some part of this delightful little lyric. The heroine loses her lover, and exclaims O where's he gone whom I love best? And has left me here to sigh and mourn ;— Till once I see if my love return. The seas shall dry-the fishes fly The rocks shall melt down wi' the sun The labouring man shall forget his labour; If ever I prove false to my Till once I see if he will return. If all the song had equalled this specimen, it would have merited a place in any collection, O POORTITH CAULD. ye; O poortith cauld, and restless love, This warld's wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a' the lave o't; Fie, fie on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't. Her een sae bonnie blue betray How she repays my passion; But prudence is her o'erword aye, She talks of rank and fashion. O wha can prudence think upon, O wha can prudence think upon, How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate! The sillie bogles, wealth and state, "Poortith cauld" was sent to George Thomson unaccompanied by any remarks from Burns: it is a sweet and a touching song. The old words are of a gay and a pleasant character: the hero who " had a horse and had nae mair" was a man of a different stamp from the hero of the present song. In uniting the air to sadder words, Burns perhaps was conscious that he was disobeying the warning spirit of the old melody: but his mind was not always in a mirthful mood; and, I confess, I love his pathos more than his humour. I have followed the poet's first version of the song in the last verse, as more natural than the amended copy. The "humble cottar" has his visions of wealth and importance as well as the most lordly. The "wild-wood Indian" is living in what Alexander Peden called "black nature," a state of irreclaimable barbarism. VOL. IV. G THRO' CRUIKSTON CASTLE'S LONELY WA'S. Thro' Cruikston Castle's lonely wa's The wintry wind howls wild and dreary; For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure ; That roars between me and my treasure. With jealous spite to keep me frae thee, The watch-dog's howling loads the blast, I'll to this bosom clasp my dearie. Yes, Mary, tho' stern winter rave With a' his storms to keep me frae thee, For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee. This is another of Robert Tannahill's songs, and one well worthy of the favour which it has obtained. Indeed, had the unhappy author received only a tithe of the admiration, whilst he was living, which has been poured so vehemently over his grave, he would not so soon have been numbered among the "sons of the morning." It is safe to sympathise in a poet's fortune when the sod is above him-he will not rise to ask the opulent mourner for a favour. SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGIE-BURN. Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, And blythe awakes the morrow, While care my heart is wringing. I canna tell, I maunna tell, I darena for your anger; |