THERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, 0:
What signifies the life o' man,
An 'twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.

Alas! he sayde, for my mastres,
I well perceyue that I shall dye.

Wythout that thus she of hur grace,
To pety she wyll somewhat reuert,
I haue most cause to say alas,
For hyt ys she that hath my hart.

Soo to contynew whyle my lyff endur,
Though I fore hur sholde suffre dethe,
She hath my hart wyth owt recure,

And euer shall duryng my brethe.

It is perhaps unnecessary to add that the burthen, Colle to me, &c. is, as usual, to be repeated at the end of every stanza. Ritson says, in reference to what has already been advanced regarding the Scottish song of the same name, that he should neither be surprised nor sorry to learn that this is not the original song. Neither should we, for it presents no very fascinating specimen of the amatory lyric of our forefathers.

In the fragments appended to David Herd's valuable collection of Ballads and Songs, we find the following snatch of one of the traditionary strains, probably familiar to Burns in a more perfect form:

Green grows the rashes, O!
Green grows the rashes, O!
The feather bed is na sae saft,
As a bed amang the rashes.

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't,
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't;

The parson kist the fidler's wife,

And he could na preach for thinking o't.
Green grow, &c.

The down bed, the feather bed,
The bed amang the rashes, O!
Yet a' the beds is na sae saft,
As the bosoms o' the lassies, O.

The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can near enjoy them, O.
Green grow, &c.

And Mr Buchan has favoured us with a north country ditty, which if it does not refer to the song which we have attempted to illustrate, at least deals in rushes. It has no poetical excellence, but we are anxious to preserve it, though possibly in a very corrupted state, as a specimen of the Songs once popular in Scotland.

It was early in a morning,

As thro' the woods I walk'd along,
My hounds they fell a growling,

As they were eager on the game.

I spied a pretty fair maid,

Who seem'd to me like Venus queen ;

I soon did overtake her,

She was culling the rushes green.

I stepped up unto her,

And said to her, sweet lovely maid,
These rushes you've been gathering
Would make for us a pleasant bed.

She said, kind Sir, be civil,

Nae trouble gie, but let me be;
Nor strew my rushes carelessly,

For they hae been great toil to me.

If I strew your rushes, fair maid,
I'll up and gather them bedeen,
And tak you in arms twa,

And row ye in the rushes green.

I took her in arms twa,

And treated her wi' kisses three;

The cuckoo fell a screaming,

And condoling frae tree to tree.

As thus we lay a-musing,

Sae lovingly below the tree,
Lie still awhile, says Mary dear,

The dew it is disturbing me.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
And warly cares, and warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0 :
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Green grow, &c.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0:
Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.

Fareweel, my pretty fair maid,
For here I can nae langer stay,
I hear the huntsman's horn blaw,
And that's the sound I maun obey.

If ever I return again,

I'll come and see my darling queen, And tak her in my arms twa,

And row her on the rushes green.

This is homely enough in all conscience.-M.

MENIE.*

Tune-" Jockey's grey breeks."

AGAIN rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews.

CHORUS.†

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk,
And it winna let a body be!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,
In vain to me the violets spring;

In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I still, &c.

The merry ploughboy cheers his team,
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,

But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun I still, &c.

The wanton coot the water skims,
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry

The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, &c.

Menie is the common abbreviation of Mariamne; who the heroine was has not transpired.-M.

This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shill,
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step

I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A wo-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I still, &c.

Come, Winter, with thine

angry howl,
And raging bend the naked tree;

Thy gloom will sooth my cheerless soul,
When nature all is sad like me!

CHORUS.

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk,
And it winna let a body be.*

* Burns' first editor very justly remarks-" We cannot presume to alter any of the poems of our bard, and more especially those printed under his own direction; yet it is to be regretted that this chorus, which is not of his own composition, should be attached to these fine stanzas, as it perpetually interrupts the train of sen timent which they excite." In this opinion most critics will agree.-M.