This is another of Robert Tannahill's songs, and one well worthy of the favour which it has obtained. Indeed, had the unhappy author received only a tithe of the admiration, whilst he was living, which has been poured so vehemently over his grave, he would not so soon have been numbered among the "sons of the morning." It is safe to sympathise in a poet's fortune when the sod is above him-he will not rise to ask the opulent mourner for a favour.

SWEET FA'S THE EVE ON CRAIGIE-BURN.

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn,
And blythe awakes the morrow,
But a' the pride o' spring's return
Can yield me nought but sorrow:
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.

I

canna tell, I maunna tell,

I darena for your anger;

But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.

I see thee gracefu', straight, and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonnie;
But, oh! what will my torments be
If thou refuse thy Johnie!

To see thee in anither's arms,
In love to lie and languish,
"Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi' anguish.
But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say thou lo'es nane before me;
And a' my days o' life to come
I'll gratefully adore thee.

There are several variations of this song, and they are all so good that they have become popular. The heroine was one of the ladies to whose personal charms the Muse of Burns did frequent acts of homage, under the name of " Chloris," "The Lassie wi' the lintwhite locks," and "The Lass of Craigie-burn." She was as condescending as she was beautiful. It is written in the measure of an old song, of which the chorus is still popular :

O to be lying beyond thee, dearie,

O to be lying beyond thee:

How light and sweet would be his sleep

Who lay in the bed beyond thee!

NAEBODY.

I hae a wife o' my ain,
I'll partake wi' naebody;
I'll tak cuckold frae nane,

I'll gie cuckold to naebody.`
I hae a penny to spend,
There-thanks to naebody;

I hae naething to lend,
I'll borrow frae naebody.

I am naebody's lord,

I'll be slave to naebody;

I hae a gude braid sword,

I'll take dunts frae naebody.

I'll be merry and free,

I'll be sad for naebody;

If naebody care for me,
I'll care for naebody.

This little, lively, lucky song was written at Ellisland. Burns had built his house-he had committed his seedcorn to the ground-he was in the prime, nay the morning of life—health, and strength, and agricultural skill were on his side-his genius had been acknowledged by his country, and rewarded by a subscription more extensive than any Scottish poet ever received before; no wonder, therefore, that he broke out into voluntary

song expressive of his sense of importance and independence. The poet, however, modulated his chant by the sentiment and measure of an old rustic bard, who sung with less vigour, but with equal truth:

I hae a wife o' my ain,

I'll be behadin to naebodie;

I hae a pat and a pan,

I'll borrow frae naebody.

I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN.

I'll

ay ca' in by yon town,

I'll

And by yon garden green again;

ay ca' in by yon town,

And see my bonnie Jean again.

There's nane shall ken, there's nane shall guess,
What brings me back the gate again,

But she, my fairest faithfu' lass,

As stowlins we shall meet again.

She'll wander by the aiken-tree,
When trystin-time draws near again;
And when her lovely form I see,
O haith, she's doubly dear again!

I'll ay ca' in by yon town,

I'll

And by yon garden green again;

ay ca' in by yon town,

And see my bonnie Jean again.

Popular report has dedicated this charming little song to more than one beauty. The air was one of Burns's favourites, and the subject had caught his fancy, for he has indulged us with another song of the same character, of greater length, but not of greater loveliness. An old song supplied him with a few words:

I'll gang nae mair to yon town,
Na, never a' my life again;
I'll gang nae mair to yon town,
To seek a wilfu' wife again.

COUNTRY LASSIE.

In simmer when the hay was mawn,
And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
While clover blooms white o'er the lea,
And roses blaw in ilka bield,

Blithe Bessie, in the milking shiel,

Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild,
O' gude advisement comes nae ill.