Wishfully I look and languish
In that bonnie face o' thine;

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,
In ae constellation shine;

To adore thee is my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee, &c.

GANE IS THE DAY AND MIRK'S THE NIGHT.

Tune-" Guidwife count the lawin."

GANE is the day and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And bluid-red wine's the rising sun.

Then guidwife count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin,
Then guidwife count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen';

orthodox Protestant would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration: and I can no more resist rhyming on the impulse than an eolian harp can refuse its notes to the streaming air. A distich or two would be the consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were gray-bearded age: but where my theme is youth and beauty-a young lady, whose personal charms, wit, and sentiment, are equally striking and unaffected by heavens! though I had lived three score years a married man, and three score years before I was a married man, my imagination would hallow the very idea."-M.

But here we're a' in ae accord,

For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.
Then guidwife count, &c.

My coggie is a haly pool,

That heals the wounds o' care and dool;
And pleasure is a wanton trout,

An ye drink it a' ye'll find him out.*
Then guidwife count, &c.

MEIKLE THINKS MY LUVE O' MY BEAUTY.+
Tune-" My Tocher's the jewel."

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin;
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie,
My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree,
It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee,
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi’ the siller,
He canna hae luve to spare for me.

Your proffer o' luve's an airl-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy ;
But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin,

Sae
ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree,

Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,
And ye'll crack your credit wi' mae nor me.

This stanza appears in the shorter pieces which conclude the poems.-M.

This first appeared in Johnson's Museum. Oswald.-M.

The air is by

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.*

JOHN Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonnie brow was brent;

* In the first volume of a collection, entitled Poetry Original and Selected, printed by Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, this song is given as follows:

John Anderson my Jo, improved,

BY ROBERT BURNS.

JOHN Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en ;
Ye'll blear out a' your een, John, and why should you do so?
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when nature first began
To try her canny hand, John, her master-work was man;
And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae tap to toe;
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, ye were my first conceit,

And ye need na think it strange, John, tho' I ca' ye trim and neat;

Tho' some folks say ye're auld John, I never think ye so,
But I think ye're aye the same to me, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns,
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms,
And sae are ye in mine, John-I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no,
'Tho' the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie,
To see sae many sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me,
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go,
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, when we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent;

But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snow;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

But now your head's turn'd bald, John, your locks are like the

snow,

Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, frae year to year we've past,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last :
But let na that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe,
While in innocent delight we liv'd, John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go ;
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo.

The stanza with which this song, inserted by Messrs Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of

this improved song. In regard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably our bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given to the world as the production of Burns. If there were no other mark of their spurious origin, the latter half of the third line in the seventh stanza, "our hearts were ne'er our foe," would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in which our bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be produced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought, in false grammar. These additional stanzas are not however without merit, and they may serve to prolong the pleasure which every person of taste must feel, from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting.-Currie.

The old song of John Anderson my Jo' has been preserved by Bishop Percy in his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry. In reference to it, that accomplished prelate says:-" While in England, verse was made the vehicle of controversy, and Popery was attacked in it by logical argument or stinging satire; we may be

John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:

sure the zeal of the Scottish Reformers would not suffer their pens to be idle, but many a pasquil was discharged at the Romish priests and their enormous encroachments on property. Of this kind, perhaps is the following, (preserved in Maitland's MS. collection of Scottish poems in the Pepysian library :)

Tak a Wabster, that is leill,

And a Miller, that will not steil,
With ane Priest, that is not greedy,
And lay ane deid corpse thame by,
And throw virtue of thame three,
That deid corpse sall qwyknit be.

Thus far all was fair: but the furious hatred of popery led them to employ their rhymes in a still more licentious manner. It is a received tradition in Scotland, that at the time of the Reformation ridiculous and obscene songs were composed to be sung by the rabble, to the tunes of the most favourite hymns in the Latin service. 'Green sleeves and pudding pies,' (designed to ridicule the popish clergy,) is said to have been one of these metamorphosed hymns; Maggy Lauder' was another; 'John Anderson, my Jo,' was a third. The original music of all these sonnets was very fine. To give a specimen of their manner we have inserted one of the least offensive. The reader will pardon the meanness of composition, for the sake of the anecdote which strongly marks the spirit of the times.

"In the present edition, this song is much improved by some new readings communicated by a friend; who thinks by the seven bairns, in stanza second, are meant the spurious offspring of Mother Church, as the first stanza contains a satirical allusion to the luxury of the popish clergy.

"The adaptation of solemn church music to these ludicrous pieces, and the jumble of ideas thereby occasioned, will account for the following. From the records of the General Assembly in Scotland, called 'The Book of the Vniversal Kirk,' p. 90, 7th July, 1568, it appears that Thomas Bassendyne, printer in Edinburgh, printed a psalme buik, in the end whereof was found printed one baudy sang, called Welcome Fortunes.''

WOMAN.

John Anderson, my Jo, cum in as ze gae bye,
And ze sall get a sheip's heid weil baken in a pye;