And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,

And aye she sang sae merrily: The blithest bird upon the bush

Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys

That bless the little lintwhite's nest;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,
The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep and kye,
And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;
And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o' the stream

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;
So trembling, pure, was tender love,
Within the breast o' bonie Jean.*

And now she works her mammie's wark,
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain;

Yet wistna what her ail might be,
Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her ee,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,

Ae e'enin on the lily lea?

* Burns asks Mr. Thomson if this stanza is not original?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to her's he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;1
But stray amang the heather-bells,
And tent the waving corn wi' me.

Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,
And love was aye between them twa.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.*

TUNE-ROBIN ADAIR.'

HILE larks with little wing

Fann'd the pure air,

Tasting the breathing spring,
Forth I did fare:

VAR. In a MS. copy, cited by Allan Cunningham, the sixth verse is omitted, and the first two lines of this stanza read,

"Thy handsome foot thou shaltna set

In barn or byre to trouble thee."

* Burns wrote to Thomson in August, 1793, "I have

Gay the sun's golden eye
Peep'd o'er the mountains high;
Such thy morn! did I cry,
Phillis the fair.

In each bird's careless song

Glad did I share;

While yon

wild flowers among,

Chance led me there:

Sweet to the opening day,
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;
Such thy bloom! did I say,
Phillis the fair.

Down in a shady walk,
Doves cooing were,
I mark'd the cruel hawk
Caught in a snare:
So kind may Fortune be,
Such make his destiny,

He who would injure thee,
Phillis the fair.

tried my hand on 'Robin Adair,' and you will probably think, with little success; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair of doing any thing better to it." "So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand on it in Scots verse. There I always find myself, most at home."

"Phillis the Fair," according to Allan Cunningham, was Phillis M'Murdo, afterwards Mrs. Norman Lockhart, of Carnwath, and sister of "Bonnie Jean," of "There was a Lass;" and he adds, that "Burns wrote it at the request of Stephen Clarke, the musician, who believed himself in love with his charming pupil."

B

BY ALLAN STREAM.*

TUNE- ALLAN WATER.'

Y Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, While Phoebus sank beyond Benleddi ;+

The winds were whispering thro' the grove,

The yellow corn was waving ready:

I listen'd to a lover's sang,

And thought on youthfu' pleasures monie; And aye the wild-wood echoes rang

O, dearly do I love thee, Annie!‡

I

Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson in August, 1793, “I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume of the 'Museum' in my hand; when turning up 'Allan Water,' 'What numbers shall the Muse repeat,' &c. as the words appeared to me rather unworthy of so fine an air; and recollecting that it is on your list, I sat, and raved, under the shade of an old thorn, till I wrote out one to suit the measure. may be wrong, but I think it not in my worst style. You must know, that in Ramsay's Tea-table, where the modern song first appeared, the ancient name of the tune, Allan says, is Allan Water,' or, 'My love Annie's very bonie.' This last has certainly been a line of the original song; so I took up the idea, and, as you will see, have introduced the line in its place, which I presume it formerly occupied; though I likewise give you a choosing line, if it should not hit the cut of your fancy. 'Bravo! say I: it is a good song.' Should you think so too (not else), you can set the music to it, and let the other follow as English verses. Autumn is my propitious season. I make more verses in it than in all the year else."

"A mountain west of Strathallan, 3009 feet high." R. B.

"Or, 'O my love Annie's very bonie." " R. B.

O, happy be the woodbine bower,
Nae nightly bogle mak it eerie ;
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour,

The place and time I met my dearie !
Her head upon my throbbing breast,
She, sinking, said "I'm thine for ever!"
While monie a kiss the seal imprest,

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever.

The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae,
The simmer joys the flocks to follow;
How cheery thro' her shortening day

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow!
But can they melt the glowing heart,
Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure,
Or, thro' each nerve the rapture dart,
Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure?

HAD IA CAVE.

TUNE-ROBIN ADAIR.'*

AD I cave on some wild, distant shore,
Where the winds howl to the waves'

There seek

dashing roar ;

There would I weep my woes,

my lost repose,

Till grief my eyes should close,

Ne'er to wake more.

Burns wrote to Thomson in August, 1793,

"That

crinkum-crankum tune, Robin Adair, has run so in my