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O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, TAM.

They snool me sair, and haud me down,
And gar me look like bluntie, Tam!
But three short years will soon wheel roun',
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam,

An O for ane and twenty, Tam,

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam!

I'll learn my kin a rattlin

sang

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam,

A glebe o' land, a claut o' gear,
Was left me by my auntie, Tam;
At kith or kin I needna spier,

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof,
Though I mysel hae plenty, Tam;
But hear'st thou, laddie? there's my loof,
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam.
An O for ane and twenty, Tam,

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tam!

I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang

An I saw ane and twenty, Tam.

Tam had the good fortune to be beloved by a very lively and opulent young lady. Her account of her hopes and her affections is very confidential, and her

confidence has been rewarded by public favour. The "Moudiework," from which this admirable song accepted only the aid of the air, is a very old and very free lyric; which cannot well be quoted, and certainly can far less be sung. "This song is mine," is the brief claim which Burns makes to this production in the Reliques.

THE LASS OF ARRANTEENIE.

Far lone, amang the Highland hills,
'Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,

By rocky dens, and woody glens,
With weary steps I wander :
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,

Are nought to me, when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass of Arranteenie.

Yon

mossy rose-bud down the howe,
Just op'ning fresh and bonnie,

Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
And's scarcely seen by ony:
Sae sweet amidst her native hills

Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower of Arranteenie.

Now, from the mountain's lofty brow,
I view the distant ocean;
There avarice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion.—

Let fortune pour her golden store,

Her laurell'd favours many,

Give me but this, my soul's first wish,
The lass of Arranteenie.

I suspect that the "Lass of Arranteenie" is one of those aërial damsels whom lyric poets create as the Egyptians make gods-for the express purpose of falling down and worshipping the work of their own hands. He who sings of the charms of an imaginary maiden must share in the reproach with which the the Romish church:

Thus Romish bakers praise the deity

poet assails

They chipp'd, while yet in its paniety.

This is one of poor Tannahill's songs, and contains a pretty picture of modest love and quiet affection.

MY NANNIE-O.

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many-o,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
An' I'll awa' to Nannie-o:

The westlin wind blaws loud and shill,
The night's baith mirk and rainy-o;
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hills to Nannie-o.

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye-o:

May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie-o!
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie-o;-
The op'ning gowan, wet wi dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie-o.

A country lad is my degree,

An' few there be that ken me-o; But what care I how few they be? I'm welcome aye to Nannie-o.

My riches a's my penny-fee,

An' I maun guide it cannie-o;

But warl's gear ne'er troubles me,
My thoughts are a' my Nannie-o.

LIBR

OF TH

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Our auld gudeman delights to view

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie-o;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nannie-o.
Come weel, come woe, I carena by,

I'll tak what Heav'n will send me-o;

Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, an' love my

Nannie-o.

Burns was fond of his native hills and streams; the rivers and rivulets of Ayrshire are remembered in many a moving song. A very pretty stream, with a very strange name, once flowed in the commencing line of "My Nannie-o:" the poet listened to the complaint of some fastidious singer, and removed Nannie's native stream, and replaced it with the Lugar. Such changes lessen our belief in the local truth of lyric verse; but perhaps Burns exclaimed with Prior, when he sought to excuse himself from the charge of more serious levities, "Ye gods, must one swear to the truth of a song!" The poet, it will be remembered, changed his name from Burness to Burns, a kind of deliberate whim which deprived a very ancient name of an increase of honour. Those who live on the banks of the stream of Stinchar will think of the fame of which the poet deprived them by displacing it for the Lugar.

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