THE LAD THAT'S FAR AWA'.

O how can I be blithe and glad,

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best Is o'er the hills and far awa’?

It's no the frosty winter wind,
It's no the driving drift and snaw;
the tear comes in my e'e,
To think on him that's far awa'.

But

ay

My father pat me frae his door,

My friends they hae disown'd me a’,

But I hae ane will take my part,

The bonnie lad that's far awa'.

A pair o' gloves he gae to me,

And silken snoods he gae me twa ; And I will wear them for his sake,

The bonnie lad that's far awa'.

The weary winter soon will

pass,

And spring will cleed the birken-shaw; my sweet babie will be born,

And

And he'll come hame that's far awa'.

Nothing can well surpass the artless, the simple, and pathetic complaint of this deserted lady. The starting verse alone is old: all the rest came fresh from Burns's heart and imagination; and it must sink into every heart that sings or reads it.

GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY BE WI' YOU A'.

Good night, and joy be wi' ye a';

Your harmless mirth has cheer'd my heart:
May life's fell blasts out o'er ye blaw;
In sorrow may ye never part!
My spirit lives, but strength is gone;

The mountain-fires now blaze in vain :
Remember, sons, the deeds I've done,
And in your deeds I'll live again!

When on yon muir our gallant clan
Frae boasting foes their banners tore,
Wha show'd himself a better man,

Or fiercer wav'd the red claymore?
But when in peace-then mark me there—
When through the glen the wand'rer came,

I gave him of our lordly fare,

I gave him here a welcome hame.

The auld will speak, the young maun hear;
Be cantie, but be good and leal;
Your ain ills ay hae heart to bear,
Anither's ay hae heart to feel.
So, ere I set, I'll see you shine,

I'll see you triumph ere I fa';
My parting breath shall boast you mine-
Good night, and joy be wi' ye a'.

This "Good night" was written by Sir Alexander Boswell, and it catches the spirit and seizes a stray line from an old song which began and ended with the same words. Burns wrote masonic verses to the air; but masonic songs are of too dark and mystic a nature to be felt by an unenlightened multitude; and I must consign all such compositions to the exclusive use of the "Children of light," the " Brethren of the mystic level."

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE.

She's fair and fause that causes my smart,

I lo'ed her meikle and lang:

She's broken her vow, she's broken

my

heart,

And I may e'en gae hang.

A coof cam' in wi' rowth o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,

Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she

A woman has❜t by kind:

O woman lovely, woman fair!

prove,

An angel form's faun to thy share,

"Twad been o'er meikle to've gien thee mair,
I mean an angel mind.

The natural mixture of sorrow and satire in this little song makes it one of the happiest of the many lyric compositions of Burns. His studied and elaborate efforts were directed to the embellishment of the truly splendid work of George Thomson, while his more hasty, and, it must not be disguised, less discreet sallies were dedicated to the service of an humbler production-the Mu

seum.

But some of those hasty things are conceived in the poet's happiest manner; and they who look into Johnson will see many gems of antique verse, many native pearls of price, and many pieces of virgin gold glittering before them. The fickleness of a lady of the name of Stuart occasioned this song. She had deserted the poet's friend.

Saw

MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.

ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, Saw ye my true love down on yon lea— Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,

Sought she the burnie where flowers the hawtree? Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e:

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,
Down by the burnie where flowers the hawtree:
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses—
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, modest her nature,

She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.