Wi' monie a sweet babe fatherless,
And monie a widow mourning,1
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth-
A poor but honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstained wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coyl,
I thought upon my Nancy;
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reached the bonny glen
Where early life I sported;
I passed the mill, and trysting-thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turned me round to hide the flood
That in my e'en was swelling.

Wi' altered voice, quoth I, "Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,

1 Variation

"And eyes again with pleasure beamed,

That had been bleared with mourning."

ET. 35.]

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

57

O happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom!

My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I've served my king and country lang -
Take pity on a sodger!"

Sae wistfully she gazed on me,
And lovelier was than ever;
Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never :
Our humble cot and hamely fare
Ye freely shall partake o't;
That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't."

She gazed she reddened like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily;

She sank within my arms, and cried,

"Art thou my ain dear Willie ?"
"By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

"The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted!
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er be parted."

Quo' she, "My grandsire left me gowd,

farm

A mailen plenished fairly;

And come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly."

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor ;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour.
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay
In day and hour of danger.

MEG O' THE MILL.

AIR-O Bonny Lass, will you lie in a Barrack?

O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? And ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' fool- lump siller,

And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

The Miller was strappin', the Miller was ruddy, A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady;

ET. 35.] YESTREEN I GOT A PINT OF WINE. 59

1

The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl;
She's left the guidfellow and taen the churl.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and offered

loving;

The Laird did address her wi' matter more

moving,

A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chainèd bridle, A whip by her side, and a bonny side-saddle.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing!
And wae on the love that is fixed on a

mailen!

estate

A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle, But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl! 2

YESTREEN I GOT A PINT OF WINE.

"Shepherds, I have lost my Love! is to me a heavenly air what would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I have made one to it, a good while ago,

1 A poor little creature.

2 The poet had retouched an old song of this name for Johnson's Museum in 1788. It appeared in the sixth volume, as "written for this work by Robert Burns," but is so rude and wretched a production, that we cannot believe many words of it to have been supplied by so masterly a pen.

which I think ***, but in its original state it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose an altered, not amended, copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the Irish verses follow."- Burns to Mr. Thomson, 7th April, 1793.

-

Mr. Thomson, it appears, did not approve of this song, even in its altered state. It does not appear

in the correspondence; but it is probably one which stands in his manuscripts as follows:

YESTREEN I got a pint of wine,
A place where body saw na;
Yestreen lay on this breast of mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness,
Rejoicing o'er his manna,

Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west,
Frae Indus to Savannah :
Gie me within my straining grasp
The melting form of Anna.
There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,

While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take with Anna!

Awa', thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa', thou pale Diana!

Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray,
When I'm to meet my Anna.

honey