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COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE.

Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa';
Come in frae the cauld blast, the drift, and the snaw;
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me—
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa!
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
I'll hap ye frae every cauld blast that can blaw:
Come under my plaidie, and sit down beside me,
There's room in't, dear lassie, believe me, for twa.

Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! auld Donald, gae 'wa,
I fear na the cauld blast, the drift, nor the snaw;
Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! I'll no sit beside ye;
Ye might be my gutcher:-auld Donald, gae 'wa.
I'm gaun to meet Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie;
He's been at Meg's bridal, fu' trig and fu' braw!
Nane dances sae lightly, sae gracefu', sae tightly,
His cheek's like the new rose, his brow's like the snaw.

Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa',
Your Jock's but a gowk, and has naething ava;
The hale o' his pack he has now on his back;
He's thretty, and I am but threescore and twa.
Be frank now and kin❜ly: I'll busk ye aye finely;
To kirk or to market they'll few gang sae braw;
A bien house to bide in, a chaise for to ride in,
And flunkies to 'tend ye as fast as ye ca'.

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My father

tauld ay

me, my

mither an' a',

Ye'd make a gude husband, and keep me ay braw;
It's true I lo❜e Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie,
But, waes me, I ken, he has naething ava!

I hae little tocher, ye've made a gude offer ;
I'm nae mair than twenty; my time is but sma'!
Sae gie me your plaidie, I'll creep in beside
I thought ye'd been aulder than threescore and twa!

ye,

She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa',
Whare Johnie was list'ning, and heard her tell a':
The day was appointed!-his proud heart it danted,
And strack 'gainst his side, as if bursting in twa.
He wander'd hame wearie, the night it was drearie,
And, thowless, he tint his gate 'mang the deep snaw :
The howlet was screamin', while Johnie cried, Women
Wad
marry auld Nick if he'd keep them ay braw.

O the deil's in the lasses! they gang now sae braw,
They'll lie down wi' auld men o' fourscore and twa;
The hale o' their marriage is gowd and a carriage;
Plain love is the cauldest blast now that can blaw.
Auld dotards, be wary! take tent wha ye marry,
Young wives wi' their coaches they'll whup and they'll

ca',

Till they meet wi' some Johnie that's youthfu' and

bonnie,

And they'll gie ye horns on ilk haffet to claw.

"Come under my Plaidie" was printed in the Museum, and has since found ready admission into our lyric collections; yet it is deficient in the sprightly rustic grace and buoyant animation of many of our songs of courtship and matrimony. That an old man should desire a young wife, is nothing new; and that the vanity of woman should cast away true love for splendid dresses and a coach, is not uncommon. The charm, therefore, must lie in the poetry or in the vivid narrative. There is little that can be called poetry about it; and the narrative is never brightened up for a moment by any of those flashings-out of humour or of wit, which we remember, with pleasure and love, to repeat. It was written by Hector Macneill.

DUNCAN GRAY.

Duncan Gray came here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't,

On blithe Yule night, when we were fou,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie coost her head fu' heigh,

Look'd asklent an' unco skeigh,

Gart

poor Duncan stand abeigh;

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, an' Duncan pray'd,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan sigh'd baith out an' in,

Grat his een baith blear❜d an' blin',
Spake o' louping o'er a linn,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time an' chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Slighted love is sair to bide,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,

For a haughty hizzie die?

She may gae to-France-for me!

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't;

Meg grew sick as he grew heal,
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Something in her bosom wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;

And O, her een, they spake sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Maggie's was a piteous case,

Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan couldna be her death,

Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath:

Now they're crouse and canty baith ;
Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

"Duncan Gray is that kind of light-horse gallop of an air which precludes sentiment-the ludicrous is its ruling feature:" such are the words of Burns in his communication with Mr. Thomson concerning this lively song. Into the shortest measure, the poet had the unrivalled art of infusing ease and grace, and vivacity and · humour. To airs for which our ancestors could only find a lucky line or two, which, from a penury of invention, they repeated through the verse, Burns found an overflow of happy verses, telling the lively or the tender story of the song without the clumsy assistance of those cuckoo repetitions. An ancient Duncan Gray once existed, but the hero had no right to be called " a lad of grace."

WANDERING WILLIE.

Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie,
Here awa', there awa', haud awa' hame;

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie,

Tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the same.

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