["Do you know a fine air," Burns asks Thomson, April, 1793, "called 'Jackie Hume's Lament'? I have a song of considerable merit to that air: I'll enclose you both song and tune, as I have them ready to send to the Museum." It is probable that Thomson liked these verses too well to let them go willingly from his hands: Burns touched up the old song with the same starting line, but a less delicate conclusion, and published it in the Museum.]

I.

O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? She has gotten a coof wi' a claute o' siller, And broken the heart o' the barley Miller.

I.

BLYTHE hae I been on yon hill As the lambs before me; Careless ilka thought and free

As the breeze flew o'er me. Now nae langer sport and play,

Mirth or sang can please me; Lesley is sae fair and coy,

Care and anguish seize me.

II.

Heavy, heavy is the task,

Hopeless love declaring: Trembling, I dow nocht but glow'r,

Sighing, dumb, despairing!

If she winna ease the thraws

In my bosom swelling; Underneath the grass-green sod Soon maun be my dwelling.

II.

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy;
A heart like a lord and a hue like a lady:
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl,
She's left the guid-fellow and ta'en the churl.

III.

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving;
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving,
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle,
A whip by her side and a bonnie side-saddle.

IV.

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing;
And wae on the love that is fixed on a mailen!
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle,
But gie me my love, and a fig for the warl!

CXCVI.

LOGAN WATER.

["Have you ever, my dear sir," says Burns to Thomson, 25th June, 1793, "felt your bosom ready to burst with indignation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions? In a mood of this kind to-day I recollected the air of Logan Water. If I have done anything at all like justice to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour's meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit." The poet had in mind, too, during this poetic fit, the beautiful song of Logan-braes, by my friend John Mayne, a Nithsdale poet.]

VOL. II.

I.

O LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide That day I was my Willie's bride! And years sinsyne hae o'er us run, Like Logan to the simmer sun.

FF