I doubtna, lass, but ye may think,
Because ye hae the name o' clink,
That ye can please me at a wink,
Whene'er ye like to try.

But sorrow take him that's sae mean, Although his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean

That looks sae proud and high,

Although a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.

But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Though hardly he for sense or lear
Be better than the kye.

But, Tibbie, lass, take my advice; Your daddy's gear makes you sae nice : The deil a ane wad spier your price Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I wouldna gie her in her sark
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark;
Ye need na look sae high,

“Tibbie, I hae seen the day," is the earliest of all the lyric compositions of Burns. It has none of those felicitous touches and happy and vigorous thoughts, for which he became afterwards so much distinguished; yet it is lively and clever, and well worthy of a place. Who the saucy maiden was we may now perhaps inquire in vain. Happy is the lady on whom the sun of his fancy shone, for she will live long in light. I wish he had been more fastidious in his heroines.

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN?

O, wat

ye wha's in yon town
Ye see the e'enin sun upon?.
The fairest dame's in yon town
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw
She wanders by yon spreading tree:
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!

How blest ye birds that round her sing,
And welcome in the blooming year!

And doubly welcome be the spring,
The season to my Lucy dear!

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,

And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr ; But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Though raging winter rent the air;

And she a lovely little flower

That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town

Yon sinking sun's gaun down

A fairer than's in yon town

If

upon;

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

angry

fate is sworn my foe,
And suffering I am doom'd to bear,
I careless quit aught else below;
But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear.

For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart;

And she-as fairest is her form,

She has the truest, kindest heart.

It seems unlikely that Burns dedicated these fine verses to the honour of more than one lady; yet tradition is so perversely blind as to impute them to the influence of Mrs. Burns, while at the same time the name of the heroine, and authority of a far less dubious nature than any thing traditional, assign them to the charms of Lucy Johnstone, the accomplished lady of Mr. Oswald of Auchencruive. Like many of the poet's songs, it commences by imitating an ancient lyric; but the Muse only uses the old verse as a kind of vantage ground from which she may ascend into the region of original song with greater readiness: no one who reads it will imagine that it owes any of its beauty to

I'll gang nae mair to yon town,

O never a' my life again.

Some copies omit the name of Lucy, and substitute Jeanie, and the fourth verse presents the following variation :

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes sae green;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.

LANGSYNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND

BURN.

Langsyne, beside the woodland burn,

Amang the broom sae yellow,

I lean'd me 'neath the milk-white thorn,
On nature's mossy pillow;

A' round my seat the flow'rs were strew'd,
That frae the wild wood I had pu'd,
To weave mysel' a summer snood,
To pleasure my dear fellow.

I twin'd the woodbine round the rose,
Its richer hues to mellow;

Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
To busk the sedge sae yellow.
The crow-flow'r blue, and meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose-braided link;
But little, little did I think

I should have wove the willow.

My bonnie lad was forc'd afar,
Tost on the raging billow v;
Perhaps he's fa'en in bloody war,
Or wreck'd on rocky shallow.

Yet ay I hope for his return,

As round our wonted haunts I mourn;

And often by the woodland burn

I pu' the weeping willow.