That slowly mount the rising steep;

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een.

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze,
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean ;
When Phoebus sinks behind the seas;
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish een.

Her voice is like the ev'ning thrush,

That sings on Cessnock banks unseen;
While his mate sits nestling in the bush;
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish e'en.

But it's not her air, her form, her face,

Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen ; 'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry grace. An' chiefly in her rogueish een.

[Burns was passionately in love with the subject of this poem, or "Song of Similes" as it has been called. Her name was Ellison Begbie, her father being a small farmer in Galston parish, and she herself at that time in service with a family who resided near Cessnock water, about two miles north-east from Lochlie. After some intimacy and correspondence with the poet she rejected his suit, and soon married another lover.]

SONG-BONIE PEGGY ALISON.

Tune-“The Braes o' Balquhidder."

Chor. And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

And I'll kiss thee o'er again :

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

My bonie Peggy Alison.

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near
I ever mair defy them, O!

Young kings upon their hansel throne *
Are no sae blest as I am, O!

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O!
I seek nae mair o' Heav'n to share
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

And by thy een sae bonie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,

And break it shall I never, O!

And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, &c.

[This and the song which immediately follows (Mary Morison), long went wandering in search of the living originals; but no fair damsels nor sonsie lasses in the parish of Tarbolton, bearing such names, were ever heard of. As the poet admitted that all his earlier love-songs were the breathings of real passion-a legend of his heart being inscribed on each of them-a "heroine hunt" for the inspirers of them was the eventful result. Gilbert Burns when applied to for information regarding Mary Morison, replied that she was also the subject of some light verses, beginning, “And I'll kiss thee yet." This clue suggested that the poet had simply disguised these juvenile productions by altering the names. Mrs Begg's information regarding her brother's passion for the Lass of Cessnock Banks—Ellison, or Alison Begbie, started the natural idea that Burns must have attempted to weave her name into some snatch of song. Her surname, however, being so very prosaic and untunable, what was a poor poet to do? His object could be attained only by compromise, and that might be accomplished by transposing Alison Begbie into "Peggy Alison,"-a very euphonious by-name indeed! Let us take for granted that such was the case, and then it follows, that Ellison Begbie was also the inspirer of its charming companionsong, Mary Morison.

"Hansel" means the first fruit of an achievement, or of a particular field, or season: hence a gift at New-Year time is so called. The term "maiden throne" would precisely explain the poet's phrase here.

SONG-MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be,

It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,*
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',
To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,t
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said among them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morison."

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly die?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;

A thought ungentle canna be

The thought o' Mary Morison

[Hazlitt says of this lyric-"Of all the productions of Burns, the pathetic and serious love-songs which he has left behind him, in the manner of old ballads, are perhaps those which take the deepest and most lasting hold of the mind."]

WINTER: A DIRGE.

As I am what the men of the world, if they knew of such a man, would call a whimsical mortal, I have various sources of pleasure and enjoyment which are in a manner peculiar to myself, or some here and there such other out-of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in the season of Winter more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast; but there is something even in the

"Mighty tempest and the hoary waste

Abrupt and deep stretch'd o'er the buried earth,"

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to everything great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more-I don't know if I should call it pleasure, but something which exalts me, something which enraptures me, than to walk in the sheltered side of a wood or high plantation in a cloudy winter day, and hear a stormy wind howling among the trees and raving o'er the plain. It is my best season for devotion; my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to Him who, in the pompous language of Scripture, "walks on the wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a tract of misfortunes, I composed the following song.— Tune, "M'Pherson's Farewell."-Common-place Book, April 1784.

THE wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;

Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:

While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"*

The joyless winter day

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join ;

* Dr Young -R. B.

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm I rest; they must be best,

Because they are Thy will!

Then all I want-O do Thou grant
This one request of mine !—
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

[The author tells us that he composed this piece at the period referred to in his head-note to the following Prayer, "just after a tract of misfortunes." This corresponds with the tone of his melancholy letter to his father written from Irvine, and also with what he narrates in his autobiography, of his partner in trade having robbed him, and his flax-dressing shop taking fire on New Year's morning, 1782, by which he was left, "like a true poet, not worth a sixpence."]

A PRAYER UNDER THE PRESSURE OF

VIOLENT ANGUISH.

There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, which threatened and indeed affected the utter ruin ot my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy; in this wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my harp on the willow trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of which I composed the following:

O THOU Great Being! what Thou art,

Surpasses me to know;

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all Thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey Thy high behest.