SONG.-O WERE I ON PARNASSUS HILL.

(JOHNSON'S MUSEUM, 1790.)

O WERE I on Parnassus hill,
Or had o' Helicon my fill,
That I might catch poetic skill,

To sing how dear I love thee !
But Nith maun be my Muses' well,
My Muse maun be thy bonie sel',
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell,

And write how dear I love thee.

Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay!
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day

I couldna sing, I couldna say,

How much, how dear, I love thee,

I see thee dancing o'er the green,
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean,
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish een—
By Heaven and Earth I love thee !

By night, by day, a-field, at hame,
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame;
And ay I muse and sing thy name-

I only live to love thee.

Tho' I were doom'd to wander on,
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun,
Till my last weary sand was run;

Till then and then I love thee!

[This is another poetic compliment to Mrs Burns, composed at Nithside during the sun mer or antumn of 1788, while she still remained in Ayrshire. The "Corsincon " on which the eye of the bard was fixed during his musings, is a high conical hill at the base of which the infant Nith enters Dumfriesshire from New Cumnock in Ayrshire. The latter half of the second stanza of this lyric has been often instanced

as the very perfection of personal description in a love-song. Writing to Miss Chalmers regarding his Jean about the date of this composition, he says:-"I have got the handsomest figure, the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the country . . . . And she has (O the partial lover! you will cry) the finest 'wood-note wild' I ever heard."

The air in Johnson is by Oswald-"My Love is lost to me."]

THE FALL OF THE LEAF.

(JOHNSON'S MUSEUM, 1790.)

THE lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill,
Concealing the course of the dark winding rill;
How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear!
As Autumn to Winter resigns the pale year.

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown,
And all the gay foppery of summer is flown :
Apart let me wander, apart let me muse,
How quick Time is flying, how keen Fate pursues !

How long I have liv'd—but how much liv'd in vain,
How little of life's scanty span may remain,
What aspects old Time in his progress has worn,
What ties cruel Fate, in my bosom has torn.

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd ! And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd!

Life is not worth having with all it can give—

For something beyond it poor man sure must live.

[This grave production, apparently freshly composed, was sent along with "The Mother's Lament" to Dr Blacklock, in the poet's letter to him, dated from Mauchline 15th November 1788. He there says—“I have sent you two melancholy things, and I tremble lest they should too well suit the tone of your present feelings." He adds that he is "to move bag and baggage to Nithsdale in a fortnight," and that he is more and more pleased with the step he took regarding Jean."]

66

[Such were the poet's sentiments, and such his expressions when he welcomed his wife to Nithsdale in the first week of December 1788. His house at Ellisland was not yet in a seasoned condition for being used with comfort as a dwelling, and he had obtained the temporary use of a picturesque lodging about a mile farther down the Nith, at a place called "The Isle," from which locality his letters were occasionally dated during that winter.

Cunningham has observed regarding the style of this little song:"It is one of Burns's happy efforts, although the language is perhaps too peculiar to be fully felt by any, save Scotchmen; but to them it comes with a compact vigour of expression not usual in words fitted to music."]

IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE FACE.

(JOHNSON'S MUSEUM, 1792.)

Something, in ilka part o' thee,
To praise, to love, I find,
But dear as is thy form to me,
Still dearer is thy mind.

Nae mair ungenerous wish I hae,
Nor stronger in my breast,
Than, if I canna mak thee sae,
At least to see thee blest.

Content am I, if Heaven shall give
But happiness to thee;

And as wi' thee I'd wish to live,

For thee I'd bear to die.

[These verses, which read like a calmly affectionate address by Burns to his wife, he informs us himself "were originally English, and that he gave them a Scotch dress." They are set in the Museum to a tune by Oswald, called "The Maid's Complaint," which Stenhouse says is one of the finest Scottish airs that Oswald ever composed; if so, we must be hard to please, for we can perceive nothing attractive in the melody. It must be confessed, however, that James Oswald's reputation as a composer stood very high in his day. Prior to 1736, he was a music master and precentor in Dunfermline, which town he then left to practise in Edinburgh. Meeting with much encouragement, he was induced to proceed to London in 1741, where he published his "Caledonian Pocket Companion" and other musical works, and where he seems to have passed the remainder of his life. On the occasion of his leaving Edinburgh, a poetical epistle addressed to him (by Allan Ramsay, as is supposed) was printed in the Scots Magazine for October 1741. He is there highly complimented, and is asked when he will

"" some tender tune compose again,

And cheat the town with David Rizzio's name?"

Among others of his supposed compositions, mention is there made of a newly polished set of "To Daunton Me ;" and the "Braes of Ballandine," the "Banks of Forth," "Alloa House," 99 66 Pinky House," "The Northern Lass," "The Cypress Grove," "Miss Stuart," and "The Lass of Inverness," are all enumerated as familiar compositions of his.]

AULD LANG SYNE,

(JOHNSON'S MUSEUM, 1796.)

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And auld1 lang syne!

Chorus. For auld lang syne, my dear,"

For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.3

For auld, &c.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary fitt,*
Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

We twa hae paidl'd in the burn,

Frae morning sun till dine;

But seas between us braid hae roar'd

Sin' auld lang syne.

For auld, &c.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere ! a

And gie's a hand o' thine!