It's no its loud roar, on the wintry wind swellin',
It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e;
For, O! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan,

The dark days o' winter were simmer to me.

The second verse of the " Braes o' Gleniffer" is exceedingly beautiful and natural. The season of flowers was departed, the song of the mavis was mute, and nothing was seen but a waste of snow and the birds, as they chirped and flitted from bough to bough, shaking the snow-drift from their wings. The chief excellence, and the greatest fault, of Tannahill are exemplified in this song. His inanimate nature is far too luxuriant for his animated nature-he smothers his heroes and heroines in the very garments with which more judicious poets seek only to dress them.

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O meikle thinks my love o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my love o' my kin;
But little thinks my love I ken brawlie

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;
It's a' for the honey he'll cherish the bee:
My laddie's sae meikle in love wi' the siller,
He canna hae love to spare for me.

VOL. IV.

K

Your proffer o' love's an airle-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy;
But an ye be crafty, I am cunning,

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree;
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mair nor me.

Burns has painted the heroine of this clever song as a shrewd and considerate damsel. Her acquaintance with the saving-knowledge of proverbs, and her natural acuteness, enable her to penetrate into the views of her lover: she is not so unwilling to become his wife, as she is exasperated at the attempt to overreach a lady of her sagacity. His craft is confronted by her cunning;-what a treat their conversation must have been! But I am forgetting that they are only imaginary personages,-in such natural and lively colours has the poet painted them. In the last verse the poet seems to have remembered some old lines:

Where will our gudeman lie

Till he shoot o'er the simmer?

Up aboon the hen bawks

Among the rotten timmer.

THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.

I see a form, I see a face,

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place :
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her ee.
O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair though the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her ee.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,

The kind love that's in her ee.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen;
But gleg as light are lover's een,
When kind love is in the ee.

It may escape the courtly sparks,
It may escape the learned clerks ;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her ee.

Burns imagined that he had his propitious season for

lyric composition. Autumn, he confessed, exercised a strong influence over his spirit; and that whenever the corn ripened, and the reapers assembled, he ascended into the region of song. A mind naturally poetic, like that of Burns, had the elements of verse ever ready for

use,

had an earnest call been made: a genius which flourishes only during a particular season seems like a flower which gives its bloom to the spring, and its withered leaves to the rest of the year. This song is one of his autumnal productions; and indeed it is worthy of any season. It parodies, for the chorus, the old song of "This is no my ain house," but it carries the resemblance no farther; and were the chorus dismissed altogether, the song would be no sufferer.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spakna, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor;

But fient a hair care I..

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day
Ye would na been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trouth, I carena by.

I doubtna, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er like to try.
ye

But sorrow take him that's sae mean, Although his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean

That looks sae proud and high.

Although a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.

But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Though hardly he for sense or lear
Be better than the kye.

But, Tibbie, lass, take my advice; Your daddy's gear makes you sae nice: The deil a ane wad spier your price Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wouldna gie her in her sark
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark;
Ye need na look sae high.