Burns has pulled all the fairest flowers of garden and field, and showered them on his mistress. The song is a favourite.

THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.

Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle turrets are cover'd wi' snaw;
How chang'd frae the time when I met wi' my lover
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley green shaw !
The wild flow'rs o' simmer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree ;
But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blithesome and cheerie, Then ilk thing around us was bonnie and braw; Now naething is heard but the wind whistling drearie, And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw. The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie ; They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they

flee;

And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnie ; 'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain, And shakes the dark firs on the steep rocky brae, While down the deep glen bawls the snaw-flooded fountain,

That murmur'd sae sweet to my laddie and me.

It's no its loud roar, on the wintry wind swellin',
It's no the cauld blast brings the tear i' my e'e;
For, O! gin I saw but my bonnie Scots callan,

The dark days o' winter were simmer to me.

The second verse of the "Braes o' Gleniffer" is exceedingly beautiful and natural. The season of flowers was departed, the song of the mavis was mute, and nothing was seen but a waste of snow and the birds, as they chirped and flitted from bough to bough, shaking the snow-drift from their wings. The chief excellence, and the greatest fault, of Tannahill are exemplified in this song. His inanimate nature is far too luxuriant for his animated nature-he smothers his heroes and heroines in the very garments with which more judicious poets seek only to dress them.

MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL.

O meikle thinks my love o' my beauty,
And meikle thinks my love o❜ my kin;
But little thinks my love I ken brawlie

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him.
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree;
It's a' for the honey he'll cherish the bee:
My laddie's sae meikle in love wi' the siller,
He canna hae love to spare for me.

VOL. IV.

K

Your proffer o' love's an airle-penny,
My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy;
But an ye be crafty, I am cunning,

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try.
Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood,
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree;
Ye'll slip frae me like a knotless thread,

And ye'll crack your credit wi' mair nor me.

Burns has painted the heroine of this clever song as a shrewd and considerate damsel. Her acquaintance with the saving-knowledge of proverbs, and her natural acuteness, enable her to penetrate into the views of her lover: she is not so unwilling to become his wife, as she is exasperated at the attempt to overreach a lady of her sagacity. His craft is confronted by her cunning;-what a treat their conversation must have been! But I am for

getting that they are only imaginary personages,-in such natural and lively colours has the poet painted them. In the last verse the poet seems to have remembered some old lines :

Where will our gudeman lie

Till he shoot o'er the simmer?

Up aboon the hen bawks

Among the rotten timmer.

THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.

I see a form, I see a face,

Ye weel may wi' the fairest place :
It wants, to me, the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her ee.
O this is no my ain lassie,
Fair though the lassie be;
O weel ken I my ain lassie,
Kind love is in her ee.

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
And lang has had my heart in thrall;
And aye it charms my very saul,

The kind love that's in her ee.

A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
To steal a blink, by a' unseen;
But gleg as light are lover's een,
When kind love is in the ee.

It

It may escape the courtly sparks,
may escape the learned clerks ;
But weel the watching lover marks
The kind love that's in her ee.

Burns imagined that he had his propitious season for

lyric composition. Autumn, he confessed, exercised a strong influence over his spirit; and that whenever the corn ripened, and the reapers assembled, he ascended into the region of song. A mind naturally poetic, like that of Burns, had the elements of verse ever ready for use, had an earnest call been made: a genius which flourishes only during a particular season seems like a flower which gives its bloom to the spring, and its withered leaves to the rest of the year. This song is one of his autumnal productions; and indeed it is worthy of any season. It parodies, for the chorus, the old song of "This is no my ain house," but it carries the resemblance no farther; and were the chorus dismissed altogether, the song would be no sufferer.

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE DAY.

Yestreen I met you on the moor,
Ye spakna, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor;
But fient a hair care I.

O Tibbie, I hae seen the day

Ye would na been sae shy;
For lack o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trouth, I carena by.