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substituted for Lucy," ," and a few other necessary modifications. The song will be found on page 155, Volume I., of this scarce Glasgow periodical (a copy of which lies before us), under the heading of "Song, by Robert Burns (never before published)." This gives us a probable clue to the date of the chapbook edition, in which the song is an exact reproduction of the version given in the Glasgow Magazine. The probability is, that it was printed from the last-named publication before its appearance in Johnson's Museum, December, 1796.

In the copy written for Mrs. Oswald, the third line of the chorus reads:

The fairest dame's in yon toun.

In the Glasgow publication, as in the letter to Thomson :

The fairest maid's in yon toun.

Line two of the third verse (not reckoning the chorus, with which the song begins):—

And on yon bonnie banks of Ayr.

Line four :

And dearest bliss is Lucy fair.

These read in the Glasgow Magazine :

Among the broomy braes sae green;
And dearest treasure is my Jean.

The chapbook has "pleasure" (probably a misprint) for "treasure." Next verse, third line, for "Lucy," "Jeanie"; next verse, fourth line, for " tend,' ""tent"; last verse but one, fourth line, for "Lucy," "Jeanie "; and first line of last verse:

For while life's dearest blood is warm,

Read in the magazine and chapbook :—

For while life's dearest blood runs warm.

The late William Scott Douglas, that prince among the poet's editors, in his Library Edition of the Works of

Burns, appends a long note to this song, in which he remarks, that "it was no unusual thing with Burns to shift the devotion of a verse from one person to another," but, like all other commentators on the poet's writings, he evidently believed that the song was first printed in Johnson's Museum.

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

BY REV. DR. WILLIAM S. SMART.

Delivered at the Anniversary of St. Andrew's Society, Albany, N. Y., November 30th, 1888.

OUR worthy president, Mr. Peter Kinnear, is recognized by all who know him as a kind hearted man; and he is too true a Scotchman to be other than " canny" in his judgment; yet I hardly know how to adjust this view of our friend, with the situation in which I am placed by his request, that I should say something to you about Robert Burns. I fear my acceding to his wishes was kind neither to you nor to me; and that for once he has been mistaken in his choice of a speaker. If I had considered well the difficulty of the task assigned me, I should have declined; but my reluctance was overborne by a desire to do something to please the man who has done so much for the memory of Scotland's greatest poet; and made the lovers of Burns everywhere his debtors by the fidelity with which he has executed a delicate trust, and secured a memorial which is so much of an ornament to our park and city.

No words of mine can equal the beautiful statue,* itself a poem in bronze and marble, which shall perpetuate the form and visage of Burns as he once appeared among men. No pen portrait can rival the sculptor's art, which has not only shaped a graceful form, but infused into his work a spirit, delicate and suggestive as the genius which has filled the whole world with the music of its sweet song. It is artis- ⚫ tically perfect, except that which no art could reproduce, the large lustrous black eyes-" the finest I ever saw in any man says Sir Walter Scott. But, while it is true that neither the statue nor the man it represents, needs our praise, it is also true that the last words on Burns have by

Burns Memorial in Washington Park erected August 30, 1888, by request of Mary Macpherson. Peter Kinnear Executor; Charles Calverly, Sculptor.

no means been spoken. His place in the Pantheon of the world's great singers is secure. He was nature's minstrel, turning into sweet music her most familiar strains, and interpreting to us the glory which lies about the simple loves and joys and sorrows which measure the deepest feelings of the human heart, and which in the highest and best sense are our life. What feeling of the human breast is there which his genius has not transfigured; making our common thoughts and experiences to rise before us in robes of glistening light, and touched with celestial beauty? His magic wand had power to bring water from the rock, and to cause springs to arise in the desert. The life at Lochlea was rustic and laborious, and full of the anxieties which haunt a poor man's dream. The world looked anything but bright to Burns at twenty-five, when he wrote his "Epistle to Davie," and fed his heart on the delights of friendship:

"This life has joys for you and I;

And joys that riches ne'er could buy;

And joys the very best.

There's a' the pleasures o' the heart,

The lovers and the frien';

Ye hae your Meg, your dearest part,
And I my darling Jean.

It warms me, it charms me
To mention but her name:
It beets me, it heats me
And sets me a' on flame!

All hail, ye tender feelings dear!
The smile of love, the friendly tear,
The sympathetic glow!

Long since this world's thorny ways

Had numbered out my weary days,

Had it not been for you!

Fate still has blest me with a friend,

In every care and ill;

And oft a more endearing band

A tie more tender still,

It lightens, it brightens

The tenebrific scene,

To meet with, and greet with

My Davie or my Jean!"

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And the heart which could thus sing the delights of friendship was as constant as fervid. In that noblest of all

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