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A coof cam' in wi' rowth o' gear,
And I hae tint my dearest dear;
But woman is but warld's gear,
Sae let the bonnie lass gang.

Whae'er ye be that woman love,
To this be never blind,

Nae ferlie 'tis though fickle she prove,
A woman has❜t by kind:

O woman lovely, woman fair!

An angel form's faun to thy share,

'Twad been o'er meikle to've gien thee mair,
I mean an angel mind.

The natural mixture of sorrow and satire in this little song makes it one of the happiest of the many lyric compositions of Burns. His studied and elaborate efforts were directed to the embellishment of the truly splendid work of George Thomson, while his more hasty, and, it must not be disguised, less discreet sallies were dedicated to the service of an humbler production-the MuBut some of those hasty things are conceived in the poet's happiest manner; and they who look into Johnson will see many gems of antique verse, many native pearls of price, and many pieces of virgin gold glittering before them. The fickleness of a lady of the name of Stuart occasioned this song. She had deserted the poet's friend.

seum.

MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing,
Saw ye my true love down on yon lea-
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming,

Sought she the burnie where flowers the hawtree? Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e:

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses,
Where could my wee thing wander frae me?

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing,
Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea ;
But I met my bonnie thing late in the gloaming,

Down by the burnie where flowers the hawtree:
Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-white,
Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e;

Red were her ripe lips and sweeter than roses-
Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

It was nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing,
It was nae my true love ye met by the tree:
Proud is her leal heart, modest her nature,

She never loved ony till ance she lo'ed me.
Her name it is Mary, she's frae Castle-cary,
Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee:
Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer,
Young bragger she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee.

It was then your Mary, she's frae Castle-cary,

It was then your true love I met by the tree; Proud as her heart is and modest her nature,

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me.

Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his cheek grew, Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e:

Ye'se rue sair this morning your boasts and

ing,

Defend ye fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie.

your scorn

Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth smiling

Off went the bonnet, the lint-white locks flee, The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing,

Is it my true love here that I see?

O Jamie forgie me, your heart's constant to me,
I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee.

66

Mary of Castle-cary" has been admired as one of our first-rate songs. But no song that Hector Macneill ever wrote has any right to such a distinction. Still it is one of the author's best songs: the story is indeed improbable; but the language is happy, and the narrative dramatic. I wish the poet had called down the cloud of night to assist the indiscreet maiden in her deception. The quick eye and the acute ear of love are too keen not to have penetrated through the disguise. Yet I like much the swaggering presumption of the lass of Castlecary, and the honourable disbelief and passion of her admirer.

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE?

Wilt thou be my dearie?

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart,

Wilt thou let me cheer thee?
By the treasure of my soul,
That's the love I bear thee !

I swear and vow that only thou
Shalt ever be my dearie.

Only thou, I swear and vow,
Shalt ever be my dearie.

Lassie, say thou lo’es me;
Or if thou wiltna be my ain,
Sayna thou❜lt refuse me :
If it winna, canna be,

Thou for thine may choose me,
Let me, lassie, quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo’es me.
Lassie, let me quickly die,
Trusting that thou lo’es me.

The old song of the "Sutor's daughter," which lends its air to these beautiful verses, gave no other aid to the poet. By many of the admirers of the old songs, Burns has been accused of misleading the current of ancient verse into a channel of his own-of turning the mirthful into the serious, and the gay into the pathetic. If

what he found woollen he converted into silk; if to a velvet sleeve he added a velvet garment; and if he plaited the tresses and lowered the nether garments of the antique Scottish Muse, he rendered an acceptable service to his country. He has done all this, and much

more.

HIGHLAND MARY,

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfald her robes,

And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade,
I clasp'd her to my bosom!

The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

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