THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

BURNS. Air-"The mill, mill O."

WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

And mony a widow mourning,
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 unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheerily did wander.

I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That pleased my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill and trysting thorn
Where Nancy aft I courted;
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,

Down by her mother's dwelling!-
I turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

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

Oh, happy, happy may he be

That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,

And fain wad 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 it;

That gallant badge, the dear cockade,
Ye're welcome for the sake o't!"

She gazed-she redden'd 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,
A mailin plenish'd fairly;

And come, my faithful 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.

Mr. Thomson having written to Burns that he should get Mr. (afterwards Sir William) Allan to paint him a picture from this song, the poet wrote to him: "As to the point of time for the expression in your proposed print of my 'Sodger's Return,' it must certainly be at' She gazed, she redden'd like a rose.' The interesting dubiety and suspense taking possession of her countenance, and the gushing fondness, with a mixture of roguish playfulness in his, strike me as things of which a master will make a great deal."

THE RED, RED ROSE.

In Witherspoon's Collection of Scots Songs.

"Do you know," says Burns, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "the beautiful little fragment in Witherspoon's collection of Scots Songs, called, 'Oh, gin my love?' The thought it contains is inexpressibly beautiful, and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, unles you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain.

Он, gin my love were yon red rose
That grows upon the castle wa',
And I mysel' a drap o' dew,

Into her bonnie breast to fa'!

Oh, there, beyond expression blest,
I'd feast on beauty a' the night;
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest,
Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light.

"After balancing myself for a few minutes on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following. That they are far inferior to the foregoing I frankly confess; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place, as every poet, who knows any thing of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke."

Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring ;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing;

How I wad mourn when it was torn
By autumn wild and winter rude!

But I wad sing on wanton wing
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

OH, POORTITH CAULD.

BURNS. Air-" I had a horse, I had nae mair."

Он, poortith cauld and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' 'twere na for my Jeanie.

Oh, why should fate sic pleasure have
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune's shining?

This warld's wealth when I think on,
It's pride and a' the lave o't;
Fie, fie, on silly coward man,

That he should be the slave o't!

Oh, why, &c.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword aye,
She talks o' rank and fashion.

Oh, why, &c.

Oh, wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?

Oh, wha can prudence think upon,

And sae in love as I am?

Oh, why, &c.

How blest the humble cottar's fate!

He woos his simple dearie;

The silly bogles wealth and state

Can never make him eerie.

Oh, why, &c.

THE LEA-RIG.

BURNS. Air-"The Lea-Rig."

WHEN o'er the hills the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo,
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae douff and weary 0;
Down by the burn where scented birks

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,

I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen at midnicht hour
I'd röve and ne'er be eerie O,

If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

Although the nicht were ne'er sae wild,
An' I were ne'er sae wearie O,
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo:
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey;
It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie O.

This last stanza is generally omitted; it will be found among Burns' letters to Mr. Thomson. The original of this song is by Robert Fergusson. It is as follows:

Will ye gang ower the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O

And cuddle there sae kindly,

My kind dearie O?

At thorny dike and birken tree

We'll daff and ne'er be weary 0;
They'll scug ill e'en frae you and me,
Mine ain kind dearie O.

Nae herds wi' kent or colly there
Shall ever come to fear ye 0;
But laverocks whistling in the air
Shall woo like me their dearie O.
While others herd their lambs and yowes,
And toil for world's gear, my jo;

Upon the lea my pleasure grows
Wi' thee, my ain kind dearie O.