This song, by Burns, and also a song of the same name by Wolcot, were suggested by a very. old lyric, called "The Lass of Lochroyan," which far excels them both in poetry and pathos. Wolcot complained with some bitterness of the unkindness of Burns in selecting the same subject as himself, and imputed it to envy. They have both written fine songs: the English verse is the more elegant-the Scottish the more natural. Dr. Currie claims the merit of originality for Wolcot; and Burns disclaims all wish to enter into competition -"My song," he modestly says, "though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity about it."—I wonder if he ever read "The Lass of Lochroyan?".

A RED, RED ROSE.

O, my luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
my luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

0,

So deep in luve am I;

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a' the seas gang dry :

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun ;-
I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve!
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,

Tho' it were ten thousand mile.

There is an old Nithsdale song which seems to have suggested to Burns some part of this delightful little lyric. The heroine loses her lover, and exclaims

O where's he gone whom I love best?

And has left me here to sigh and mourn ;

O I shall wander the world over

Till once I see if my love return.
The seas shall dry-the fishes fly-

The rocks shall melt down wi' the sun

The labouring man shall forget his labour;
The blackbird shall not sing, but mourn,
love

If ever I prove false to my

Till once I see if he will return.

If all the song had equalled this specimen, it would have

merited a place in any collection,

O POORTITH CAULD.

O poortith cauld, and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An 't werena for my Jeanie.
O why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?

This warld's wealth when I think on, Its pride, and a' the lave o't;

Fie, fie on silly coward man,

That he should be the slave o't.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'erword aye,
'She talks of rank and fashion.

O wha can prudence think upon,
And sic a lassie by him?
O wha can prudence think upon,
And sae in love as I am?

How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate!

He woos his simple dearie;
The sillie bogles, wealth and state,

Can never make them eerie.
O why should Fate sic pleasure have
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on Fortune's shining?

"Poortith cauld" was sent to George Thomson unaccompanied by any remarks from Burns: it is a sweet and a touching song. The old words are of a gay and a pleasant character: the hero who "had a horse and had nae mair" was a man of a different stamp from the hero of the present song. In uniting the air to sadder words, Burns perhaps was conscious that he was disobeying the warning spirit of the old melody: but his mind was not always in a mirthful mood; and, I confess, I love his pathos more than his humour. I have followed the poet's first version of the song in the last verse, as more natural than the amended copy. The "humble cottar" has his visions of wealth and importance as well as the most lordly. The "wild-wood Indian" is living in what Alexander Peden called "black nature," a state of irreclaimable barbarism.

VOL. IV.

G

THRO' CRUIKSTON CASTLE'S LONELY

WA'S.

Thro' Cruikston Castle's lonely wa's

The wintry wind howls wild and dreary;
Tho' mirk the cheerless e'ening fa's,
Yet I ha'e vow'd to meet my Mary.
Yes, Mary, tho' the winds shou'd rave
Wi' jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
The darkest stormy night I'd brave

For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

Loud o'er Cardonald's rocky steep

Rude Cartha pours in boundless measure; But I will ford the whirling deep

That roars between me and my treasure.
Yes, Mary, tho' the torrent rave

With jealous spite to keep me frae thee,
Its deepest flood I'd bauldly brave
For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.

The watch-dog's howling loads the blast,
And makes the nightly wand'rer eerie ;
But when the lonesome way is past,
I'll to this bosom clasp my dearie.

Yes, Mary, tho' stern winter rave

With a' his storms to keep me frae thee,
The wildest dreary night I'd brave

For ae sweet secret moment wi' thee.