'O how deil, Tam, can that be true?
The chase gaed frae the North, man;
I saw myself, they did pursue

The horsemen back to Forth, man;
And at Dunblane, in my ain sight,
They took the brig wi' a' their might,
And straught to Stirling winged their flight;
But, cursed lot! the gates were shut;
And monie a huntit, poor red-coat,

For fear amaist did swarf, man!'

'My sister Kate cam up the gate
Wi' crowdie unto me, man;
She swore she saw some rebels run
Frae Perth unto Dundee, man:
Their left-hand general had nae skill,
The Angus lads had nae good-will
That day their neibors' blood to spill;
For fear, by foes, that they should lose
Their cogs o' brose-all crying woes;
And so it goes, you see, man.

"They've lost some gallant gentlemen
Amang the Highland clans, man:
I fear my Lord Panmure is slain,

Or fallen in Whiggish hands, man:
Now wad ye sing this double fight,
Some fell for wrang, and some for right;
But monie bade the world guid-night;
Then ye may tell, how pell and mell,
By red claymores, and muskets' knell,
Wi' dying yell, the Tories fell,
And Whigs to hell did flee, man.'

swoon

porridge

BLOOMING NELLY.

TUNE-On a Bank of Flowers.

On a bank of flowers, in a summer-day,
For summer lightly drest,

The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,

With love and sleep opprest;

When Willie, wandering through the wood,

Who for her favour oft had sued,

He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed,
And trembled where he stood.

Her closed eyes like weapons sheathed,
Were sealed in soft repose;

Her lip, still as she fragrant breathed,
It richer dyed the rose.

The springing lilies sweetly prest,

Wild-wanton, kissed her rival breast;

He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed-
His bosom ill at rest.

Her robes light waving in the breeze,
Her tender limbs embrace;
Her lovely form, her native ease,
All harmony and grace:
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole ;
He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed,
And sighed his very soul.

As flies the partridge from the brake
On fear-inspired wings,

So Nelly starting, half awake,

Away affrighted springs:

But Willie followed, as he should;

He overtook her in the wood;

He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid
Forgiving all and good.

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS.

TUNE-Faille na Miosg.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roc-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthplace of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below:
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer:
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

[In this song Burns caught up the single streak of poetry which existed in a well-known old stall song, entitled The Strong Walls of Derry, and which commences thus:

'The first day I landed, 'twas on Irish ground,
The tidings came to me from fair Derry town,
That my love was married, and to my sad wo,
And I lost my first love by courting too slow.'

After many stanzas of similar doggrel, the author breaks out, as under an inspiration, with the one fine verse, which Burns afterwards seized as a basis for his own beautiful ditty:

'My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;

A-chasing the deer, and following the roe

My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.']

THE BANKS OF NITH.

TUNE-Robie donna Gorach.

The Thames flows proudly to the sea,
Where royal cities stately stand;
But sweeter flows the Nith, to me,

Where Cummins ance had high command;
When shall I see that honoured land,

That winding stream I love so dear!

Must wayward Fortune's adverse hand
For ever, ever keep me here?

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales,

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom!

How sweetly wind thy sloping dales,

Where lambkins wanton through the broom!

Though wandering, now, must be my doom,
Far from thy bonny banks and bracs,
May there my latest hours consume,
Amang the friends of early days!

MY HEART IS A-BREAKING, DEAR TITTIE!

My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie!
Some counsel unto me come len',
anger them a' is a pity,

To

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?
I'm thinking wi' sic a braw fellow

In poortith I might make a fen';
What care I in riches to wallow,
If I maunna marry Tam Glen?

sister

shift

There's Lowrie, the Laird o' Drumeller,
Guid-day to you, brute! he comes ben;
He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

My minnie does constantly deave me,

And bids me beware o' young men ;
They flatter, she says, to deceive me,

But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen?

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him,
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten:
But if it's ordained I maun take him,
O wha will I get but Tam Glen?

Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,
My heart to my mou' gied a sten;
For thrice I drew ane without failing,
And thrice it was written-Tam Glen.

The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken;
His likeness cam' up the house staukin,
And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen!

Come counsel, dear tittie! don't tarry-
I'll gie you my bonny black hen,
Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo'e dearly-Tam Glen.

mother

bound

wet

The volume was introduced by a short preface, evidently from the pen of Burns-to whose credit, indeed, this work may almost wholly be placed. . . . . . As this is not one of those many publications which are hourly ushered into the world merely to catch the eye of Fashion in her frenzy of a day, the editor has little to hope or fear from the herd of readers. Consciousness of the well-known merit of our Scottish music, and the national fondness of a Scotchman for the productions of his own country, are at once the editor's motive and apology for this undertaking; and where any of the pieces in the collection may perhaps be found wanting at the critical bar of the first, he appeals to the honest prejudices of the last.'

A circumstance has been obligingly reported by Sir James S. Monteath of Closeburn, as illustrating the artist-like care with which Burns even now elaborated and finished his songs. 'There was then living in Closeburn parish a respectable woman, Christina

Kirkpatrick, married to a mason named Flint. She had a masculine understanding; was well acquainted with the old music, the songs and ballads of Scotland; and, having a fine voice and good ear, she sang them remarkably well. At a subsequent time, when the poet's mother lived on a farm which forms part of this estate, she was on intimate terms with Kirsty, to whom, on the removing with her son Gilbert to East Lothian, she gave several little presents; amongst the rest, the low-seated deal-chair on which she had nursed the poet and the rest of her children. This was obligingly presented to me by Kirsty on her death-bed, and it is now in my possession.

'When Burns dwelt at Ellisland, he was accustomed, after composing any of his beautiful songs, to pay Kirsty a visit, that he might hear them sung by her. He often stopped her in the course of the singing, when he found any word harsh and grating to his ear, and substituted one more melodious and pleasing. From Kirsty's extensive acquaintance with the old Scotch airs, she was frequently able to suggest to the poet music more suitable to the song she was singing than that to which he had set it,'1

It may also be remarked, that Burns was to some extent assisted in the same manner by his wife, whose vocal powers and acquaintance with Scottish airs airs were much beyond what is

common.

TO MR PETER HILL, BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH.

ELLISLAND, 2d Feb. 1790.

No! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not writing-I am a poor, rascally gauger, condemned to gallop at least 200 miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where can I find time to write to, or importance to interest anybody? The upbraidings of my conscience, nay, the upbraidings of my wife, have persecuted me on your account these two or three

1A statement confirmatory of the anecdote in the text is made in a communication of the late Professor Thomas Gillespie, of St Andrews, to the Edinburgh Literary Journal, December 12, 1829: When a school-boy at Wallace-hall Academy, I saw Burns's horse tied by the bridle to the sneck of a cottage-door in the neighbourhood of Thornhill, and lingered for some time listening to the songs which, seated in an arm-chair by the fireside, Burns was listening to. Betty (?) Flint was the name of the songstress. She was neither pretty nor witty, but she had a pipe of the most overpowering pitch, and a taste for song..... She sang even to us laddies, There's nae luck about the house, and Braw, braw lads o' Gala Water, most inimitably.'