I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought;
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:

My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare

touch.

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past!

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae:
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure, or pain,
My warst word is-Welcome, and welcome again!

Burns wrote this little gay and happy song to an air of which he confesses himself very fond-" Lumps o' Pudding." He has written nothing of a joyous nature more felicitously. The old proverbial lore lends wisdom to the verse, the love of freedom is delicately expressed and vindicated, the sorrows of life are softened by song, and drink seems only to flow to set the tongue of the Muse a-moving. The poet accounts for his inspiration, on another occasion:

Just ae half mutchkin does me prime,

Aught less is little;

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men ;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in
my breast.

O, had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!

"Auld Rob Morris" has made mirth in Scotland for

many generations. The first "Robert" was coarse, free, and graphic; the second "Robert" came with an increase of humour from the hand of Ramsay, and with some abatement of the grossness; and "Robert" the third came forth a discreet, and delicate, and thoughtful personage from the hand of Robert Burns. The dramatic form of Ramsay's song adds greatly to its life and buoyancy; much of it was borrowed from the ancient lyric, and from the same place Burns took the two commencing lines of the present song.

MY JEANIE.

Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust

The warld's wealth and grandeur !
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her?

I ask for dearest life alone

That I may live to love her.

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure ;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share,

Than sic a moment's pleasure:

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever!

And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never.

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 never brought to min'?
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,

And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd mony a weary foot
Since auld lang syne.

VOL. IV.

H

We twa hae paidlet i' 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
For auld lang syne.

"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.