wit, no seasonings of humour, and no varieties of incident in it. The conclusion can bear quoting:

The mither cried butt the house, Jockie! come here,
Ye've naething to do but the question to speer:
The question was speered, and the bargain was struck,
The neighbours came in and wished them good luck.

Dalgarnock, now incorporated with Closeburn, was the name of a small and beautiful little parish, extending along the banks of the Nith; its ruined kirk and lonesome burial ground are often visited by the old people of the neighbourhood-human affection clings anxiously to paternal dust. It was here that "Old Mortality" was found repairing the martyr's tombstones; and in the vicinity is Creehope-linn, which gave many a Cameronian shelter, and afforded refuge to Burley when he fought single-handed with Satan. Burns, in the course of his song, employs a proverbial expression in a way which persuades me that he did not understand it. When a lady dismisses her lover, the unfortunate swain is called her "auld shoon" —she wore him while she pleased, and then put him off. For one girl to wear the "auld shoon" of another is, in the rude figurative language of the peasantry, to accept the addresses of the other's discarded lover. In this way the vaunt in an old song is explained :

Ye
may tell the coof that gets her,
How he gets but my auld shoon.

In Burns, the first inquiry of the lady for her cousin Bess is sufficiently malicious :

I speer'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,
Gin she had recover'd her hearin.

But the next question is utterly unintelligible" and how her new shoon suited her shauchled feet"-unless we suppose that she meant to insinuate only that the feet of her cousin were " shauchled," or ill formed. By a slight alteration, I have made the line allude satirically to her cousin's situation with the discarded lover; and I imagine I have restored it to the sense which Burns intended.

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST?

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea?

My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee.

Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,

Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

In Burns's manuscripts, among which this sweet little song was found, it is called " Address to a Lady." The repetitions of the second, fourth, sixth, and eighth lines of each verse make it echo the air of "The Lass of Livingstone."

ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY.

How can my poor heart be glad,
When absent from my sailor lad?
How can I the thought forego,
He's on the seas to meet the foe?
Let me wander, let me rove,
Still my heart is with my love;
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day

Are with him that's far away.

When in summer's noon I faint,
As weary flocks around me pant,
Haply in this scorching sun
My sailor's thund'ring at his gun:
Bullets, spare my only joy!
Bullets, spare my darling boy!
Fate, do with me what you may,
Spare but him that's far away!

At the starless midnight hour,
When winter rules with boundless power;
As the storms the forest tear,

And thunders rend the howling air,

Listening to the doubling rour,

Surging on the rocky shore,
All I can-I weep and pray,
For his weal that's far away.

Peace, thy olive wand extend,
And bid wild war his ravage end,
Man with brother man to meet,

And as a brother kindly greet:

Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales

Fill

my sailor's welcome sails,

To my arms their charge convey,

My dear lad that's far away.

Burns was a zealous lover of his country, and has stamped his patriotic feelings on many a lasting verse.

He was dazzled indeed with the first bright outburst of the French Revolution, and hailed in common with millions of men the fabric of an old and formidable despotism, crumbled at the touch of national liberty. But he lived not to see a martial tyranny aspiring to universal conquest-filling the world with bloodshed, and teaching the rights of man with bayonet and cannon. Had he seen this, he would have loved liberty more fondly, since he saw she was a native of his own glens and hills; and he would have poured out patriotic songs to inspire us both by land and wave.

BANKS OF THE DEVON.

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair!

But the bonniest flower on the banks of the Devon
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr.
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower,
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew!
And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower,
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew!

0,

spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes,
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn!