LANGSYNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND

BURN.

Langsyne, beside the woodland burn,

Amang the broom sae yellow,

I lean'd me 'neath the milk-white thorn,
On nature's mossy pillow;

A' round my seat the flow'rs were strew'd,
That frae the wild wood I had pu'd,
To weave mysel' a summer snood,
To pleasure my dear fellow.

I twin'd the woodbine round the rose,
Its richer hues to mellow;

Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
To busk the sedge sae yellow.
The crow-flow'r blue, and meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose-braided link;
But little, little did I think

I should have wove the willow.

My bonnie lad was forc'd afar,
Tost on the raging billow;
Perhaps he's fa'en in bloody war,

Or wreck'd on rocky shallow.

Yet ay I hope for his return,
As round our wonted haunts I mourn;

And often by the woodland burn

I pu' the weeping willow.

The weeping willow, I am afraid, seldom hangs its long and melancholy boughs in natural Scottish landscape; and in this very pretty song, we must either consider it as an intruder or a figure of speech. The crown of sedge and the garland of willow are green in many an ancient poem and song; but I am sorry that Tannahill injured the effect of this beautiful composition by introducing them: they give the air of affectation to verses otherwise very natural and sweet.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

Where wild woods grow, and rivers row,

Wi' mony a hill between ;
Both day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
Sae fragrant, sweet, and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
Whose songs charm a' the air:

There's not a bonnie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green;
There's not a bonnie bird that sings,
But minds me o' my Jean.

O blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft
Amang the leafy trees;

Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale,
Bring hame the laden bees;
And bring the lassie back to me
That's ay sae neat and clean;
Ae blink o' her would banish care,
Sae lovely is my Jean.

What sighs and vows, amang the knowes,

Hae past atween us twa!

How fain to meet, how wae to part,

That day she gaed awa!

The powers aboon can only ken,

To whom the heart is seen,

That nane can be sae dear to me

"I composed this song," says Burns, "out of compliment to Mrs. Burns;-it was during the honey-moon." Such is the brief and lively way in which our great lyric bard informs us of the willing homage which his Muse paid to faithful domestic love and wedded affection. If I am asked the reason why the two first verses of this exquisite pastoral are only printed in his works, I can

give no satisfactory answer. All the four have been long popular, and are well known to have come from the poet's pen. In poetical beauty and truth they are all alike, and I hope they will never more be separated.

WILLIE BREW'D A PECK O' MAUT.

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,
And Rob and Allan came to pree;
Three blither hearts, that lee-lang night,
Ye wadna find in Christendie.

We arena fou, we're no that fou,
But just a drappie in our e'e;

The cock may craw, the day may daw,
And ay we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys,
Three merry boys I trow are we;
And mony a night we've merry been,
And
mony mae we hope to be!

Yon is the moon, I ken her horn,

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie;

She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,
But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!

Wha first shall rise to gang awa,

A cuckold, coward loon is he!
Wha last beside his chair shall fa',

He is the king amang us three!

66

The three heroes celebrated in this song are William Nicol, Allan Masterton, and Robert Burns. They met at the farm-house of Laggan in Nithsdale, the property of Nicol, and gave one day's discharge to care" over the punch-bowl. This memorable house-heating was celebrated by Robert and Allan in their own peculiar way. The latter wrote the music, and the former the song, while Nicol rewarded them with "wine and wassail." All the three found early graves.

Burns himself was a most hospitable and convivial man. His famous punch-bowl, while he resided at Ellisland, was frequently filled to his own satisfaction, and emptied to the delight of his friends. After his death it was presented to Alexander Cunningham of Edinburgh by the poet's family, as a mark of esteem and gratitude. Cunningham went the way of the poet, and the bowl passed from beneath the auctioneer's hammer, at the price of eighty pounds, into the hands of a speculating tavern-keeper, and from thence into the pawnshop; out of which place it was redeemed, at more than the original cost, by my friend Archibald Hastie, Esq. of West-place, London. I am glad that it has at last found sanctuary with one who, while he watches over it as a zealous catholic would watch over the "true bloody