And by thy een, sae bonnie blue, And on thy lips I seal my vow, Burns, in a letter to George Thomson, imputes the composition of this song to the benevolence of Coila, the muse of his native district: he imagines she followed him to the banks of the Nith, and poured the song on his glowing fancy. AULD LANG SYNE. Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang syne? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll take a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. We twa hae run about the braes, But we've wander❜d mony a weary foot VOL. IV. H We twa hae paidlet i̇' the burn, Frae morning sun till dine: But seas between us braid hae roar'd Since auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fere, And gie's a haud o' thine; And we'll tak a right gude-willie waught For auld lang syne. And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, And surely I'll be mine; And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet "Auld lang syne" owes all its attractions, if it owes not its origin, to the muse of Burns. So exquisitely has the poet eked out the old with the new, that it would puzzle a very profound antiquary to separate the ancient from the modern. The original song was well known in Allan Ramsay's days, but its original spirit was unfelt, since he failed in his attempt to imitate or rival it. Burns, alluding to the old verses, exclaims, "Light be the turf on the breast of the heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment! There is more of the fire of native genius in it, than in half a dozen of modern English bacchanalians." He elsewhere says, "It is the old song of the olden times, and has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, till I took it down from an old man's singing." Few such "old men" are now to be met with. CALEDONIA. Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brekan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean. Love of country and domestic affection have combined to endear this song to every bosom. The charms of the poet's Jean, and his love for old Scotland, contend for mastery; and we can hardly conclude which of them Burns admires most. It was written in honour of Mrs. Burns. BONNIE JEAN. There was a lass, and she was fair, Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. But hawks will rob the tender joys The flower and pride of a' the glen ; He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste, He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down ; And lang ere witless Jeanie wist, Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. As in the bosom o' the stream The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en, So trembling, pure, was tender love Within the breast o' bonnie Jean. And now she works her mammie's wark, And Or what wad make her weel again. The sun was sinking in the west, O canst thou think to fancy me? At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge, And tent the waving corn wi' me. And love was ay between them twa. Burns was one of those poets who imagined it was necessary to have a visible and living image of female loveliness before him, to supply him with the glowing |