LUCKIE NANCIE.

While fops, in saft Italian verse,
Ilk fair ane's een and breast rehearse,
While sangs abound and sense is scarce,
These lines I have indited:

But neither darts nor arrows here,
Venus nor Cupid shall appear;

And yet with these fine sounds I swear,

The maidens are delighted.

I was aye telling you,

Luckie Nancie, Luckie Nancie,
Auld springs wad ding the new;

Nor snaw with crimson will I mix,
To spread upon my lassie's cheeks;
And syne th' unmeaning name prefix,
Miranda, Chloe, or Phillis.

I'll fetch nae simile frae Jove,
My height of ecstasy to prove,
Nor sighing-thus-present my love
With roses eke and lilies.

But stay, I had amaist forgot
My mistress and my sang to boot,
And that's an unco' faut I wat;

But, Nancie, 'tis nae matter.

Ye see I clink my verse wi' rhyme,
And ken ye, that atones the crime;
Forby, how sweet my numbers chime,
And slide away like water.

Now ken, my reverend sonsy fair,
Thy runkled cheeks and lyart hair,
Thy half-shut een and hodling air,
Are a' my passion's fuel.

Nae skyring gowk, my dear, can see,
Or love, or grace, or heaven in thee;
Yet thou hast charms enow for me;
Then smile, and be na cruel.

Leeze me on thy snawy pow,
Luckie Nancie, Luckie Nancie ;
Driest wood will eithest low,
And, Nancie, sae will ye now.

Troth I have sung the sang to you,
Which ne'er anither bard wad do;
Hear then charitable vow,

my

Dear venerable Nancie.

But if the warld my passion wrang,

And say ye only live in sang,

Ken I despise a sland'ring tongue,

And sing to please my fancy.

This beautiful song, which at once instructs us in domestic endearment and lyric composition, was first in

troduced to the world by Allan Ramsay—it is marked as an old song, with additions. Burns, however, thought it was all Ramsay's, except the chorus; and the chorus he imagined might belong to an old song, prior to the mistake which the lady of Cherrietrees made when she concealed the Rev. David Williamson from the dragoons in the same bed with her daughter, which occasioned the scoffing song to the same air. I should have agreed with Burns (for certainly the song has something of the style of Ramsay about it), had it not been for a communication which Lord Woodhouselee made on the subject to Mr. Cromek. "I have reason to believe that no part of the words of this song was written by Ramsay. I have been informed by good authority that the words were written by the Hon. Duncan Forbes, Lord President of the Court of Session." Though Ramsay has written songs of as great merit, I am not sure that he could have laid down such excellent maxims for song writing, at least he has given us manifold examples of an inferior taste.

HAUD AWA' FRAE ME, DONALD.

Haud awa', bide awa',

Haud awa' frae me, Donald ;
I've seen the man I weel could love,
But that was never thee, Donald:
Wi' plumed bonnet waving proud,

And claymore at thy knee, Donald,
And lord o' Moray's mountains high,
Thou'rt no a match for me, Donald.

Haud awa', bide awa',

Haud awa frae me, Donald;

What sairs your mountains and your lochs,
I canna swim nor flee, Donald!
But if ye'll come when yon fair sun

Is sunk beneath the sea, Donald,

I'll quit my kin, and kilt my coats,

And take the hills wi' thee, Donald.

If this song succeeds in removing all remembrance of the original song of the same name, it will render some service to morality; for the ancient version was as gross as it was witty. Many songs have been written to this air, but none of them are worthy of the sweet and simple music. It is the first air I ever heard either played or sung, and it returns on me with many associations.

JEANIE, WHERE HAST THOU BEEN?

O, Jeanie, Jeanie, where hast thou been?
Father and mother were seeking for thee;
Ye have been ranting, playing the wanton,
Keeping young Jockie companie.

O, Bessie, I've been to hear the mill clack,
Getting meal ground for the familie;

As fou as it gade I bring hame the sack,

For the miller has taken nae multure frae me.

Oh, Jeanie, Jeanie, there's meal on your gown,
The miller's a wanton lad and a slee ;
The victual's come hame again hale, but the loon,
I fear, he has taken the multure off thee.
Oh, Bessie, ye spread your linen to bleach,

ye

be?

When that was done, where could
E'en gliding away to a nook o' the wood,
And wanton Willie was following thee.

Oh, Jeanie, Jeanie, ye gade to the kirk,
But when it skaled, where could thou be?
Ye came nae hame till it was mirk,
They say the kissing clerk came wi' ye:
O silly lassie, what wilt thou do?

In sackcloth gown they'll heeze thee hie.
Gae look to thysel wi' wanton Will-

The clerk frae creepies will keep me free.