MY BONNIE MARY.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
An' fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie !

The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith;
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready;

The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Would make me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar,—
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

In the notes on Johnson's Museum, Burns claims all this song as his composition except the first four lines. It is written to the old air, called "The silver tassie," and has more of the chivalrous ballad style about it than what was customary with the poet. He seldom went back into old times and old feelings: he stamped off the passing spirit of the moment with unequalled vigour ; the vision of ancient war which the hero saw at Berwick-law came not frequently upon his fancy.

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY

LAD.

lad;

gae mad,

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mither and a' should
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin to me.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye car'd na a flie:
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, though joking ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

"Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," owes its poetry to Burns, and its tune to John Bruce, a musician of Dumfries, an admirable fiddler, a vehement Jacobite, and a fiery highlander. An old song of the same name once existed the title was more peculiarly Scottish, Whistle, and I'll come till ye, my lad;" and it seems to have lent the chorus and the character to the present song. Burns amended the fourth line thus:

Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad;

and he vindicates the alteration. "A dame whom the graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the loves have armed with lightning,-a fair one-herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment-and dispute her commands if you dare!" I have restored the original line. Jeanie's taste was sometimes as incorrect as the poet's love.

THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T.

O wha my babie-clouts will buy?
Wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me whare I lie?

The rantin dog the daddie o't.—

Wha will own he did the faut?
Wha will buy my groanin-maut?

Wha will tell me how to ca't?

The rantin dog the daddie o't.

When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,

The rantin dog the daddie o't.—

Wha will crack to me my lane?
Wha will make me fidgin fain?
Wha will kiss me o'er again?

The rantin dog the daddie o't.

To illustrate this song I ought to make a drawing of the "stool of repentance," and place Burns upon it, appearing to listen with a grave if not with a repentant spirit, while inwardly resolving to resent this moral discipline in satiric verse. The poet wrote and sent the song to a young lady whom he had furnished with a very good reason for singing

When I mount the creepie-chair,
Wha will sit beside me there?

Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair,

The rantin dog the daddie o't.—

NANCY.

Thine am I, my faithful fair,
Thine, my lovely Nancy;
Ev'ry pulse along my veins,
Ev'ry roving fancy.

To thy bosom lay my heart,

There to throb and languish :

Though despair had wrung its core,
That would heal its anguish.

Take away these rosy lips,

Rich with balmy treasure:
Turn away thine eyes of love,
Lest I die with pleasure.
What is life when wanting love?

Night without a morning:
Love's the cloudless summer sun,

Nature gay adorning.

In autumn, his propitious season for song, Burns wrote this lyric: the first verse is in his own impassioned and vigorous way; the second is more delicate and feeble. Like many writers of love he sometimes went to a sacred source for his sentiments; but

songs,

the simple beauty of " Take away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me," has not been improved either by Burns or Thomson.