But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,

Sin auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine :

But seas between us braid hae roar'd,
Sin auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught,
For auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.*

This song, of the olden time, is excellent. It is worthy of our bard.-Currie.

We subjoin the earliest copy of this song that we have ever met with, taken from a broadside printed before 1700; from which it will be seen, that, notwithstanding the poet's resolute disclaimer, the merits of his version are peculiarly his own:

AULD LANGSYNE.

To its own proper tune.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never thought upon,
The flames of love extinguished,

And freely past and gone;

Now, I suppose I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all is over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. Gill Morice,' 'Tranent Muir,' 'M'Pherson's Farewell,' 'Battle of Sheriff Muir,' or 'We ran and they

Is thy kind heart, now grown so cold,
In that loving breast of thine,
That thou can'st never once reflect
On auld langsyne?

Where are thy protestations

Thy vows and oaths, my dear,
Thou made to me, and I to thee,
In register yet clear:

Is faith and truth so violate

To the immortal gods divine,
That thou can'st never once reflect
On auld langsyne?

Is't Cupid's fears, or frostie cares,
That makes thy sp'rits decay?
Or is't some object of more worth
That's stolen thy heart away?
Or some desert makes thee neglect
Her once so much was thine,
That thou can'st never once reflect
On auld langsyne?

Is't worldly cares so desperate

That makes thee to despair?
Is't that makes thee exasperate,
And makes thee to forbear?
If thou of that were free as I,

Thou surely should be mine,
And then, of new, we would renew
Kind auld langsyne.

But since that nothing can prevail,
And all hope now is vain,
From these rejected eyes of mine,
Still showers of tears shall rain:
And though thou hast me now forgot,
Yet I'll continue thine,

Yea, though thou hast me now forgot,
And auld langsyne.

·

ran,' (I know the author of this charming ballad, and his history,) Hardiknute,' Barbara Allan,' (I can furnish a finer set of this tune than any that has yet appeared,) and besides, do you know that I really have the old tune to which The Cherry and the Slae' was sung; and which is mentioned as a well-known air in Scotland's Complaint, a book published before poor Mary's days. It was then called 'The Banks o' Helicon:' an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to light. You will see all this in Tytler's history of Scottish music. The tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit but it is a great curiosity. I have a good many original things of this kind.

:

No. XLIII.

BURNS TO MR THOMSON.

Sept. 1793.

I AM happy, my dear Sir, that my ode pleases you so much. Your idea, "honour's bed," is, though a beautiful, a hackneyed idea; so, if you please, we will let the line stand as it is. I have altered the song as follows:

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY.

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ;

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;

If e'er I have a house, my dear,
That's truly called mine,
And can afford but country cheer,
Or aught that's good therein:
Tho' thou were rebel to the King,

And beat with wind and rain,

Thou'rt sure thyself of welcome, love,
For auld langsyne.

M.

See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward! chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa',
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be-shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!

N. B. I have borrowed the last stanza from the common stall edition of Wallace :

"A false usurper sinks in every foe,

And liberty returns with every blow."

A couplet worthy of Homer. Yesterday you had enough of my correspondence. The post goes and my head aches miserably. One comfort! I suffer so much, just now, in this world, for last night's joviality, that I shall escape scot-free for it in the world to come. Amen.

No. XLIV.

MR THOMSON TO BURNS.

12th September, 1703.

A THOUSAND thanks to you, my dear Sir, for your observations on the list of my songs. I am happy to find your ideas so much in unison with my own respecting the generality of the airs, as well as the verses. About some of them we differ, but there is no disputing about hobby-horses. I shall not fail to profit by the remarks you make, and to reconsider the whole with attention.

་

'Dainty Davie' must be sung, two stanzas together, and then the chorus: 'tis the proper way. I agree with you, that there may be something of pathos, or tenderness at least, in the air of Fee him, Father,' when performed with feeling but a tender cast may be given almost to any lively air, if you sing it very slowly, expressively, and with serious words. I am, however, clearly and invariably for retaining the cheerful tunes joined to their own humorous verses, wherever the verses are passable. But the sweet song for Fee him, Father,' which you began about the back of midnight, I will publish as an additional one. Mr James Balfour, the king of good-fellows, and the best singer of the lively Scottish ballads that ever existed, has charmed thousands of companies with Fee him, Father,' and with • Todlin hame' also, to the old words, which never should be disunited from either of these airs.-Some Bacchanals I would wish to discard. Fy, let's a' to the Bridal,' for instance, is so coarse and vulgar, that I think it fit only to be sung in a company of drunken colliers; and Saw ye my Father?' appears to me both indelicate and silly.

One word more with regard to your heroic ode. I think, with great deference to the poet, that a prudent general would avoid saying any thing to his soldiers which might tend to make death more frightful than it is. "Gory" pre