In my bower if

ye

should stay

Let me stay, quo' Findlay

I fear ye'll bide till break o' day !—
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Here this night if ye remain-
I'll remain, quo' Findlay-

I dread ye'll learn the gate again!—
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.
What may pass within this bower-

Let it pass, quo' Findlay—

Ye maun conceal till your last hour !—
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Mr. Cromek was assured by Gilbert Burns, that "Wha's that at my bower door" was suggested early in life to his brother's fancy by the song of "Widow, are ye waukin," in Ramsay's collection. That clever old lyric was frequently sung to the poet in his youth by Jean Wilson, a widow of Tarbolton, remarkable for simplicity and naïveté of character, and for singing curious old-world songs. She had outlived all her children, yet when she performed domestic worship, she still imagined them all around her, and gave out each line of the psalm with an audible voice, as though she had an audience.

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO.

What can a young lassie,
What shall a young lassie,
What can a young lassie
Do wi' an auld man?
Bad luck on the penny
That tempted my minnie
To sell her poor Jenny
For siller an' lan'!

He's always compleenin
Frae mornin to e'enin,

He hoasts and he hirples
The weary day lang:
'He's doylt and he's dozin,
His blude it is frozen;

O, dreary's the night
Wi' a crazy auld man!

He hums and he hankers,
He frets and he cankers;
I never can please him
Do a' that I can ;
He's peevish and jealous
Of a' the young fellows:
O, dool on the day

I met wi' an auld man!

My auld auntie Katie
Upon me takes pity;
I'll do my endeavour

To follow her plan;

I'll cross him, and wrack him,
Until I heart-break him,

And then his auld brass

Will buy me a new pan.

The name of an old song suggested these happy verses to Burns: they were written for Johnson's Museum. The original lyric made the blooming heroine threaten her ancient wooer with a number of personal penalties if he succeeded in making her his wife; but I think the more delicate heroine of Burns took a surer way to send the gray hairs of her old lover in sorrow to the grave. Her system seems certain and effectual—a regular, organised plan of domestic annoyance. This counsel comes from the lips of an aunt--one of those calculating dames whom lyric poets employ in giving good or evil advice according as the demon of worldly interest prevails. Some sage lady, of "wrinkled eld,” perhaps, made the match, which another seeks to dissolve by a process as sure as a parliamentary divorce.

GLOOMY WINTER'S NOW AWA'.

Gloomy winter's now awa',

Saft the westlin breezes blaw:
'Mang the birks o' Stanely-shaw
The mavis sings fu' cheerie-o.
Sweet the craw-flower's early bell
Decks Gleniffer's dewy dell,
Blooming like thy bonnie sel',
My young, my artless dearie-o.
Come, my lassie, let us stray,
O'er Glenkilloch's sunny brae,
Blithely spend the gowden day

Midst joys that never wearie-o.

Tow'ring o'er the Newton woods,
Lavrocks fan the snaw-white clouds;
Siller saughs, wi' downie buds,
Adorn the banks sae brierie-o.

Round the sylvan fairy nooks,
Feath'ry brekans fringe the rocks,
'Neath the brae the burnie jouks,

And ilka thing is cheerie-o. Trees may bud, and birds may sing, Flow'rs may bloom, and verdure spring,

Joy to me they canna bring,

Unless wi' thee, my dearie-o.

The admirers of Tannahill consider "Gloomy Winter" to be one of his most successful songs. The poet has indeed given us a beautiful landscape-he has strewn the stream of his verse with the natural flowers of the season—the name of every place on which he glances his eye mingles as naturally with the love of his mistress as the hills mingle with the vales, or the song of the thrush with the sound of the running water; but he nearly loses his love in the exuberance of landscape.

THE LEA-RIG.

When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and wearie-o;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie-o.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie-o,
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie-o.

Although the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie-o,

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearic-o.