A lawyer neist, wi' bleth'rin gab,
And speeches wove like ony

wab;

O' ilk ane's corn he took a dab,

And a' for a fee;

Accounts he owed through a' the town,

And tradesmen's tongues nae mair could drown
But now he thought to clout his gown
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

Quite spruce, just frae the washin' tubs,
A fool came neist; but life has rubs,
Foul were the roads, and fu' the dubs,
And sair besmear'd was he:

He danc'd up, squintin' through a glass,
And grinn'd, I' faith, a bonnie lass!
He thought to win, wi' front o' brass,
Jenny's bawbee.

She bade the laird gae kaim his wig,
The sodger not to strut sae big,

The lawyer not to be a prig;

The fool he cried, Tee-hee!.

I kenn'd that I could never fail !

But she prinn'd the dishclout to his tail,
And cool'd him wi' a water-pail,

And kept her bawbee.

Then Johnie came, a lad o' sense,
Although he had na mony pence;
And took young Jenny to the spence,
Wi' her to crack a wee.

VOL. IV.

Now Johnie was a clever chiel',
And here his suit he press'd sae weel,
That Jenny's heart grew saft as jeel,
And she birl'd her bawbee.

The name of this song was suggested to Sir Alexander Boswell by an old fragment, which still lives among the peasantry. He borrowed no more, and has filled up the idea which this little symbol of the maiden's wealth presented, with a procession of lovers of many professions, all alike eager for the acquirement of wealth by matrimony. The characters of the competitors for the crown matrimonial are cleverly drawn: Jenny had more prudence than what commonly pertains to maidens who flourish in lyric verse. The old verses are scarcely worth preserving :

And a' that e'er my Jenny had,
My Jenny had, my Jenny had;
A' that e'er my Jenny had,
Was ae bawbee.

There's your plack and my plack,
And your plack and my plack,
And my plack and your plack,

And Jenny's bawbee:

We'll put it in the pint stoup,

The pint stoup, the pint stoup;
We'll put it in the pint stoup,

And birl't a' three.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

Theres nought but care on ev'ry han',

In ev'ry hour that passes-o;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twerena for the lasses-o?
Green grow the raslies-o!
Green grow the rashes-o!

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses-o!

The warldly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them-o;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them-o.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie-o;
An' warldly cares, and warldly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie-o!

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,

Ye're nought but senseless asses-o! The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses-o.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes-o:

Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses-o.
Green grow the rashes-o!

Green grow the rashes-o!

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,
Are spent amang the lasses-o!

The "Green grow the Rashes" of our ancestors was a song of some spirit, and more freedom.-I remember the chorus:

Green grow the rashes-o!
Green grow the rashes-o!

Nae feather-bed was e'er sae saft,

As a bed amang the rashes-o!

It was probably akin to the song of "Pou thou me the Rushes green," mentioned in the "Complaynt of Scotland." This is one of the early songs of Burns, and the incense which it offers in the concluding verse at the shrine of female beauty is the richest any poet ever brought.

THE BLUE-EYED LASS.

I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen,
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue;
I gat my death frae twa sweet een,
Twa lovely een o' bonnie blue.
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright,
Her lips like roses wat wi' dew,
Her heaving bosom lily white;

It was her een sae bonnie blue.

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd,
She charm'd my soul, I wistna how;
And aye the stound, the deadly wound,
Came fráe her een sae bonnie blue.
But spare to speak, and spare to speed,
She'll aiblins listen to my vow:
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead

To her twa een sae bonnie blue.

eyes

The lady, in honour of whose blue this fine song was written, was Miss Jeffrey of Lochmaben, now residing at New York in America—a wife and a mother. It is very popular among the ladies; their sweet clear voices ascend with the music a height which few men can hope to reach. I have a copy of the song in the hand-writing of Burns.

LIBRA

OF THE

UNIVER