O MAY, THY MORN.

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet
As the mirk night o' December;
For sparkling was the rosy wine,
And private was the chamber:
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will aye remember;
And dear was she I darena name,
But I will aye remember.

And here's to them, that, like oursel,
Can push about the jorum ;

And here's to them that wish us weel,
May a' that's gude watch o'er them;
And here's to them we darena tell,

The dearest o' the quorum ;
And here's to them we darena tell,
The dearest o' the quorum.

This happy and original little lyric was one of many which flowed from the pen of Burns into the Musical Museum. The contrast of the first and last verses is very great, yet very natural. The poet imagines himself warmed with wine, and seated among his companions, to whom he announces, as the glass goes round,

the attractions of his mistress, and his good fortune in her affection. His confidence goes no farther;—the name of his love is not to be told; and for this poetical tyranny there is no remedy.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER.

Let us go, lassie, go,

To the braes of Balquhither,

Where the blae-berries grow

'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;

Where the deer and the rae,

Lightly bounding together,

Sport the lang simmer day,
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bow'r,

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flow'rs of the mountain;

I will range through the wilds,

And the deep glens sae drearie,

And return wi' the spoils

To the bow'r o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,
And the roar of the linn

On the night breeze is swelling,
So merrily we'll sing,

As the storm rattles o'er us,
Till the dear shieling ring

Wi' the light lilting chorus.

Now the summer is in prime,
Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming,
And the wild mountain thyme
A' the moorlands perfuming;

To our dear native scenes

Let us journey together,

Where glad Innocence reigns

'Mang the braes o' Balquhither.

This song was written by Robert Tannahill, and its liquid verse and lively images have made it a favourite. It is simple and natural without pastoral affectation, but without much pastoral knowledge. The shepherd's shieling is a bower made of materials far too frail to endure the rattle of a winter storm-it is only a summer residence. It was in a little shieling of turf and heather that I found my friend James Hogg, half way up the hill of Queensberry, with the Lay of the Last Minstrel in his hand, and all his flocks feeding before him; but I should never have looked for him there on a winter night when snows were drifting thick and deep.

7

JENNY'S BAWBEE.

I met four chaps yon birks amang, ›;
Wi' hanging lugs and faces lang:
I spier'd at neighbour Bauldy Strang,
What are they, these we see?

Quoth he, ilk cream-fac'd pawky chieľ’
Thinks himsel' cunnin' as the deil,

And here they come awa' to steal
Jenny's bawbee.

The first, a captain to his trade,

Wi' ill-lin'd scull, and back weel clad,

March'd round the barn, and by the shed,⠀

And papped on his knee:

Quoth he, my goddess, nymph, and queen,
Your beauty's dazzled baith my een!
Though ne'er a beauty he had seen
But Jenny's bawbee.

A Norland laird neist trotted up,
Wi' bawsent naig and siller whip;

Cried, Here's my horse, lad, haud the grup,

Or tie him to a tree.

What's gowd to me? I've wealth o' lan'
Bestow on ane o' worth your han'-
He thought to pay what he was awn
Wi' Jenny's bawbee.

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.