John Anderson, my jo, John,

What pleasure does it gie,
To see sae many sprouts, John,

Spring up 'tween you and me;
And ilka lad and lass, John,

In our footsteps to go,
Makes perfect heaven here on earth,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

Frae year to year we've past,
And soon that year maun come, John,

Will bring us to our last:
But let na' that affright us, John,

Our hearts were ne'er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived,

John Anderson, my jo.

John Anderson, my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a cantie day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,

But hand in hand we'll go
And we'll sleep thegither at the foot,

John Anderson, my jo. *

* In the first volume of a collection, entitled, Poetry, Oria ginal and Selected, printed by Messrs. Brash & Reid of Glasgow, this Song was first said to have been improved by Robert Burns. It now usually printed as it appeared in that collection, and Dr. CURRIE of Liverpool gives the following remarks upon it. “ The stanza with which this song, inserted by Messrs. Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked, but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. In re

JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO.
Whan Nature first began, Jean,

To try her cannie hand,
It's true she first made Man, Jean,

An' ga'e him great command;
But naething wad content him, Jean,

Tho' king o' a' below,
Till Heaven in pity sent him, Jean,

What maist he wished,- a jo!
Tho' some may say I'm auld, Jean,

An' say the same o' thee,
Ne'er fret to hear it tauld, Jean,

You still look young to me:
An' weel I mind the day, Jean,

Your breast was white as snow,
An' waist sae jimp, ane might it span,-

Jean Anderson, my jo!

gard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably our Bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand ; and the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given to the world as the production of BURNS. · If there were no other mark of their spurious origin, the sixth line of the sixth stanza, Our hearts were ne'er our foe, would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in which our Bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be produced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought in false grammar. These additional stanzas are not however without merit, and they may serve to prolong the pleasure which every person of taste must feel, from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting.” In conformity to the judgment of Dr. CURRIE, the verse usually printed first is here omitted; one of those which are indisputably Burns's is substituted in its place,—the other stands last.

Our bonnie bairns' bairns, Jean,

Wi' rapture do I see,
Come toddlin' to the fire-side,

Or sit upon my knee:
If there is pleasure here, Jean,

Or happiness below,
This surely maun be likest it,

Jean Anderson, my jo!

Tho age has sillard owre my pow,

Sin' we were first acquent,
An' changed my glossy raven locks,

It's left us still content;
An' eild ne'er comes alane, Jean,

But aft brings mony a wo,
Yet we've nae cause for sic complaint,

Jean Anderson, my jo!

In innocence we've spent our days,

An' pleasant looks the past ;
Nae anxious thoughts alarm us,

We're cheerfu' to the last :
Till Death knock at our door, Jean,

And warn us baith to go,
Contented we will live an' love,

Jean Anderson, my jo!

It's now a lang, lang time, Jean,

Sin' you an' I begun
To sprachel up life's hill, Jean ;

Our race is nearly run;
We baith hae done our best, Jean,

Our sun is wearin' low;
Sae let us quietly sink to rest,

Jean Anderson, my jo!

DONALD OF DUNDEE.

Young Donald is the blythest lad

That e'er made love to me;
Whene'er he's by, my heart is glad,

He seems so gay and free;
Then on his pipe he plays so sweet,
And in his plaid he looks so neat,
It cheers my heart at eve to meet

Young Donald of Dundee.
Whene'er I gang to yonder grove,

Young Sandy follows me,
And fain he wants to be my love,

But ah! it canna be.
Tho'mither frets both air and late,
For me to wed this youth I hate;
There's none need hope to gain young Kate

But Donald of Dundee.
When last we rang'd the banks of Tay,

The ring he show'd to me,
And bade me name the bridal-day,

Then happy wou'd he be.
I ken the youth will ay prove kind,
Nae mair my mither will I mind,
Mess John to me shall quickly bind

Young Donald of Dundee.

TWEEDSIDE.

WHAT beauties does Flora disclose?
How sweet are her smiles upon

Tweed?
Yet Mary's still sweeter than those;
Both nature and fancy exceed.

D

No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose,

Not all the gay flow'rs of the field,
Not Tweed, gliding gently through those,

Such beauty and pleasure does yield.

The warblers are heard in the grove,

The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The blackbird, and sweet cooing dove,

With music enchant ev'ry bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,

Let us see how the primroses spring;
We'll lodge in some village on Tweed,

And love while the feather'd folks sing.

How does my love pass the long day?

Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,

While happily she lies asleep?
Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest';

Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To ease the soft pains of my breast,

I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.
'Tis she does the virgins excel;

No beauty with her may compare;
Love's graces around her do dwell;

She's fairest where thousands are fair.
Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray?

Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ?
Shall I seek them on sweet winding Tay,

Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? *

* The following information respecting this song has been collected by BURNS. “ In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D. C. &c.-Old Mr. TYTLER, of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous

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