The admirers of Tannahill consider " Gloomy Winter" to be one of his most successful songs. The poet has indeed given us a beautiful landscape-he has strewn the stream of his verse with the natural flowers of the season-the name of every place on which he glances his eye mingles as naturally with the love of his mistress as the hills mingle with the vales, or the song of the thrush with the sound of the running water; but he nearly loses his love in the exuberance of landscape.

THE LEA-RIG.

When o'er the hill the eastern star
Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo;
And owsen frae the furrow'd field
Return sae dowf and wearie-o;
Down by the burn, where scented birks
Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,
My ain kind dearie-o.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,

I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie-o,
If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie-o.

Although the night were ne'er sae wild,

And I were ne'er sae wearie-o,

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie-o.

The hunter loes the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo;
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray,
It makes my heart sae cheerie-o,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie-o.

The "Lea-Rig" is the first song which Burns wrote for the work of George Thomson, and Dr. Currie supposes it to have been in some measure suggested to the poet's fancy by the very clever old song of the "Ploughman." There is a slight resemblance in words, but certainly none in sentiment. The oral versions of that old song are very variable:

When my ploughman comes hame at e'en,

He's often wet and weary:

Cast off the wet, put on the dry,

And gae to bed, my dearie.

This verse is very inaccurate; the song to which it belongs is in this collection. Burns was dissatisfied with his own success, and observes, with reference to the inequalities of the old songs, "But who shall rise up and say, go to, I will make a better? I could make nothing more of the "Lea-rig" than the following, which, heaven knows! is poor enough."

THE POOR AND HONEST SODGER.

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn,

And gentle peace returning,

Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,

And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood

That in my een was swelling.

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, sweet lass, Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, O! happy, happy may he be,

That's dearest to thy bosom ! My purse is light, I've far to gang, And fain wad be thy lodger; I've serv'd my king and country lang; Take pity on a sodger.

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,

And lovelier was than ever :
Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,

Ye freely shall partake it ;

That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't.

She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose-
Syne pale like ony lily

She sank within my arms, and cried,
Art thou my ain dear Willie ?
By Him who made yon sun and sky,
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, And find thee still true-hearted; Though poor in gear, we're rich in love, And mair we'se ne'er be parted.

Quo' she, my grandsire left me gowd,

A mailen plenish'd fairly;

And come, my faithful sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly!

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize;
The sodger's wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he's his country's stay

In day and hour of danger.

"The Poor and Honest Sodger" laid hold at once on the public feeling, and it was every where sung with an enthusiasm which only began to abate when Campbell's "Exile of Erin" and "Wounded Hussar" were published. Dumfries, which sent so many of its sons to the wars, rung with it from port to port; and the poet, wherever he went, heard it echoing from house and hall. I wish this exquisite and useful song, with the song of "Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled," "The Song of Death," and "Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,”all lyrics which infuse a love of country and a martial enthusiasm into men's breasts, had obtained some reward for the poet. His perishable conversation was remembered by the rich to his prejudice-his imperishable lyrics were rewarded only by the admiration and tears of his fellow-peasants.