O, happy be the woodbine bower,

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie!
Her head upon my throbbing breast,

She, sinking, said, I'm thine for ever!
While mony a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,
The simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery through her shortening day
Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or through each nerve the rapture dart,

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

"I walked out with the Museum," says Burns, “in my hand; and turning up Allan Water,' the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air: so I sat and raved under the shade of an old thorn till I wrote one to suit the measure. The ancient name of the tune, Ramsay says, is Allan Water,' or ' My love Annie's very bonnie:' this last has certainly been a line of the original song. So I took up the idea, and as you will see have introduced the line in its place." Burns was certainly correct in his conjecture, that the line which gave a name to Ramsay's song belonged, to an old lyric. The Allan is a northern stream; and Benledi is a mountain west of Strathallan, three thousand and nine feet high.

BONNIE BELL.

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing,
And surly winter grimly flies:
Now crystal clear are the falling waters,
And bonnie blue are the sunny skies;
Fresh o'er the mountain breaks forth the morning,
The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell:
All creatures joy in the sun's returning,
And I rejoice in my bonnie Bell.

The flowery spring leads sunny summer,
And yellow autumn presses near,
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter,
Till smiling spring again appear.
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing,
Old time and nature their changes tell;
But never ranging, still unchanging,
I adore my bonnie Bell.

I once saw a copy of this beautiful song, to which some weak hand had added a couple of strange stanzas. They were out of all keeping with the character of Burns's verses; and the peasantry for whose acceptance they had been composed soon separated the impure clay from the beaten gold.

THE DEIL'S AWA WI' THE EXCISEMAN.

The deil cam fiddling through the town,
And danc'd awa wi' the exciseman;
And ilka wife cry'd, Auld Mahoun,

We wish you luck o' the prize, man.
We'll make our maut, and brew our drink,
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony thanks to the muckle black deil
That danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.

There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our lan',
Was the deil's awa wi' the exciseman.
We'll make our maut, and brew our drink,

We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;
And mony thanks to the muckle black deil
That danc'd awa wi' the exciseman.

At a convivial meeting of the excisemen at Dumfries, Burns was called on for a song: the poet had a strong and manly, but not a very melodious voice. He declined singing; but handed this very characteristic song to the chairman written on the back of a letter: it was sung with great enthusiasm. Burns was much esteemed in his official capacity for his moderation and kindness of heart. All the country shopkeepers and ale-house

wives delight in recalling him to their remembrance, Some of the more devout add to their commendations of the poet as an excise officer-" He was warst to himsel, puir fellow."

THE GLOOMY NIGHT.

The gloomy night is gathering fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain:
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scatter'd coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, prest with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.

The autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid, azure sky,
She sees the scowling tempest fly;
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave-
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

"Tis not the surging billow's roar,
"Tis not that fatal, deadly shore ;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:

But round

my

heart the ties are bound,

That heart transpierc'd with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! Farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those:
The bursting tears my heart declare

Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr.

"I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert under all the terrors of a jail; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few friends; my chest was on the road to Greenock; and I had composed the last song I should ever measure in Caledonia—

The gloomy night is gathering fast."

Such is the history which Burns gives of this touching lyric-one of the most mournful of all his compositions, inasmuch as we associate it with his early history and his untimely death.