I see thee dancing o'er the green, Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean, By heaven and earth I love thee! By night, by day, a-field, at hame, And aye I only live to love thee. Tho' I were doom'd to wander on Till then-and then I'll love thee. Burns wrote this song when he first became a dweller on the banks of the Nith; and he wrote it in honour of Mrs. Burns. I have heard the introduction of the heathen hill and fount of poetic inspiration censured as pedantic; but they are mentioned only in a half-serious and half-comic way, that the poet may give preference to the stream of Nith and the hill of Corsincon. The second verse contains one of those happy strokes for which the poet is unrivalled-he gazes on the image of life and loveliness which his fancy presents till he can contain himself no longer, and exclaims, after making an inventory of various perfections," By heaven and earth I love thee!" VOL. IV. D WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. First when Maggie was my care, Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, How we live, my Meg and me, I could write-but Meg maun see't- No lady would be thought ambitious who wished to be considered the heroine of this brief and pithy song. Burns wrote it as a speculation upon matrimonial happiness, and with the wish of supplanting the ancient song of "Whistle o'er the lave o't," which it has not wholly succeeded in accomplishing. The old song is still living, though scarcely worthy of existence : She sent her daughter to the well, Better she had gane hersell; She missed a foot, and down she fell— Whistle o'er the lave o't. And so it goes on, meaning much more than it openly expresses. THE PLAID AMANG THE HEATHER. The wind blew hie owre muir and lea, The rain rain'd sair; nae shelter near But my love's plaid amang the heather. Close to his breast he held me fast;- the heather! 'Mid wind and rain he tauld his tale; My lightsome heart grew like a feather: It lap sae quick I cou❜dna speak, But silent sigh'd amang the heather. The storm blew past ;—we kiss'd in haste; The bowls row'd right amang the heather. Now Hymen's beam gilds bank and stream, Kind-hearted lad amang the heather. This I believe is not a popular song; nor is it one of those compositions for which the author has shown any particular regard, or his admirers any marked affection. Neither has it much novelty of sentiment or originality of conception to recommend it. Nevertheless, for flowing ease and natural felicity of expression, it surpasses any of the other songs of Hector Macneill. A lover's plaid, and a bed of heath, are favourite topics with the northern Muse; when the heather is in bloom it is worthy of becoming the couch of beauty. A sea of brown blossom, undulating as far as the eye can reach, and swarming with wild-bees, is a fine sight. COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa'; Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! auld Donald, gae 'wa, Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa', |