"By far the most finished, complete, and truly inspired pieces of Burns, are, without doubt, to be found among his SONGS. It is here that, although through a small aperture, his light shines with the least obstruction, in its highest beauty and purest sunny clearness. The reason may be that song is a brief and simple species of composition, and requires nothing so much for its perfection as genuine poetic feeling, and music of heart. The song has its rules equally with the tragedy, -rules which, in most cases, are poorly fulfilled, and in many cases not so much as felt. We reckon the songs of Burns by far the best which Britain has yet produced; for, indeed, since the era of Queen Elizabeth, we know not that by any other hand aught truly worth attention has been accomplished in this department. Independently of the clear, manly, and heart-felt sentiment that ever pervades his poetry, his songs are honest, in another point of view, in form as well as in spirit. They do not affect to be set to music; but they actually, and in themselves, are music. They have received their life, and fashioned themselves together, in the medium of harmony, as Venus rose from the bottom of the sea. The story, the feeling, is not told but suggested; not said or spouted in rhetorical completeness and coherence, but sung in fitful gushes, in glowing tints, in fantastic breaks, in warblings, not of the voice only, but of the whole mind. We consider this to be the essence of a song, and that no songs, since the little careless catches, and, as it were, drops of song, which Shakspeare has here and there sprinkled over his plays, fulfil this condition in nearly the same degree as those of Burns. Such grace and truth of external movement, too, pre-supposes, in general, a corresponding

force and truth of sentiment and inward meaning. The songs of Burns are not more perfect in the former quality than in the latter. With what tenderness he sings! yet with what vehemence and entireness! There is a piercing wail in his sorrow, and the purest rapture in his joy: he burns with the sternest ardour, or laughs with the loudest or slyest mirth; and yet he is sweet and soft, - sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, and soft as their parting tear.' If we further take into account the immense variety of his subjects,-how, from the loud, flowing revel in Willie brewed a peck o' Maut, to the still, rapt enthusiasm of sadness for 'Mary in Heaven,' -from the glad, kind greeting of 'Auld lang-syne,' or the comic archness of 'Duncan Gray,' to the fire-eyed fury of Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,'-he has found a tone and words for every mood of man's heart. It will seem small praise if we rank him as the first of all our song-writers; for we know not where to find one worthy of being second to him. It is on his songs, as we believe, that his chief influence as an author will be found to depend; nor, if our Fletcher's aphorism be true, may we account this a small influence. Let me make the songs of a people,' said he, 'and you shall make their laws.' Surely, if ever a poet might have equalled himself with legislators, it was Burns. His songs are already part of the mother tongue, not only of Scotland, but of Britain, and of the millions that, in all ends of the earth, speak a British language. In hut and hall, as the hearts of men unfold themselves, in the joy and woe of existence, the name, the voice of that joy or woe, is the name and voice which Burns has given them."-CARLISLE.

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet,

And what is best of a'

Her reputation is complete,

And fair without a flaw.

Of this song the Poet's own account is the best:"For my own part, I never had the least thought or inclination of turning poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were, in a manner, the spontaneous language of my heart. This composition was the first of my performances, and done at an early period of my life, when my heart glowed with honest, warm simplicity; unacquainted, and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The per

performance is, indeed, very puerile and silly, but I am always pleased with it, as it recals to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young girl who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed upon her. I not only had this opinion of her then, but I actually think so still, now that the spell is long since broken, and the enchantment at an end......"

[The heroine of this song was Nelly Blair, a servant in the house of an extensive land proprieter in Ayr-shire. Burns was a frequent visitor of this gentleman's kitchen in his younger days, and wrote many more songs on Nelly.]

THE

POET'S CRITICISM ON THE FOREGOING

SONG.

agreeables; or what in our Scottish dialect we call a sweet sonsy lass. The third stanza has a little of the flimsy turn in it, and the third line has rather too serious a cast. The fourth stanza is a very indifferent one; the first line is, indeed, all in the strain of the second stanza, but the rest is mere expletive. The thoughts in the fifth stanza come finely up to my favourite idea -a sweet sonsy lass: the last line, however, halts a little. The same sentiments are kept up with equal spirit and tenderness in the sixth stanza: but the second and fourth lines, ending with short syllables, hurt the whole. The seventh stanza has several minute faults; but I remember I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to this hour I never recollect it but my heart melts-my blood sallies, at the remembrance."

Luckless Fortune.

I.

O RAGING fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!
O raging fortune's withering blast
Has laid my leaf full low, O!

II.

My stem was fair, my bud was green, My blossom sweet did blow, O; The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, And made my branches grow, O.

III.

But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O;
But luckless fortune's northern storms
Laid a' my blossoms low, O.

In Burns's own memoranda are the follow

ing characteristic remarks:-"Lest my works should be thought below criticism, or meet with a critic who, perhaps, will not look on them with so candid and favourable an eye, I am determined to criticise them myself.

"The first distich of the first stanza is quite too much in the flimsy strain of our ordinary street ballads; and, on the other hand, the second distich is too much in the other extreme. The expression is a little awkward, and the sentiment a little too serious. Stanza the second I am well pleased with: and I think it conveys a fine idea of that amiable part of the sex-the

List'ning to the wild birds singing,

By a falling, crystal stream:

Straight the sky grew black and daring;
Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave;

Trees with aged arms were warring,
O'er the swelling, drumlie wave.

II.

Such was my life's deceitful morning,
Such the pleasures I enjoy'd;

But lang or noon, loud tempests storming,

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me, (She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill ;)

Of mony a joy and hope bereav'd me,
I bear a heart shall support me still.

["The Poet was only seventeen years old when he wrote this melancholy song. The early days of Burns were typical of the latter. Today, lively to morrow, desponding: depressed in the morning by labour, he brightened up as the sun went down, and was ready for "a cannie hour" with the lass of his love for a song vehemently joyous with his comrades-or a mason-meeting, where care was discharged, and merriment abounded." - CUNNINGHAM.]

Tibbie, I hae seen the Day.

Tune-Invercauld's Reel.

CHORUS.

O TIBBIE, I hae seen the day,
Ye wad na been sae shy;
For laik o' gear ye lightly me,
But, trowth, I care na by.

YESTREEN I met you on the moor,
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure;
Ye geck at me because I'm poor,
But fient a hair care I.

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, Because ye hae the name of clink, That ye can please me at a wink, Whene'er ye like to try.

But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, Wha follows ony saucy quean

That looks sae proud and high.

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart,
If that he want the yellow dirt,
Ye'll cast your head anither airt,
And answer him fu' dry.

But if he hae the name o' gear,
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier,
Thơ' hardly he, for sense or lear,
Be better than the kye.

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice,
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nice;
The deil a ane wad spier your price,
Were ye as poor as I.

There lives a lass in yonder park,
I would nae gie her in her sark,
For thee, wi' a' thy thousan' mark!
Ye need na look sae high.

341

["This is one of the earliest of the Poet's compositions. The Tibbie wha "spak na, but gaed by like stoure," was the daughter of a portioner of Kyle-a man with three acres of peat moss-an inheritance which she thought entitled her to treat a landless wooer with disdain. The Bard said he composed it when about seventeen years of age, and perhaps the proud young lady neither looked for sweet song nor such converse as maidens love, from one of such tender years." - CUNNINGHAM.]

My Father was a Farmer.

Tune-The Weaver and his Shuttle, O.

I.

My father was a farmer

Upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me In decency and order,0; He bade me act a manly part, Though I had ne'er a farthing, 0; For without an honest manly heart, No man was worth regarding, O.

II.

Then out into the world

My course I did determine, O; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, Yet to be great was charming, O: My talents they were not the worst, Nor yet my education, O; Resolv'd was I, at least to try, To mend my situation, O.

III.

In many a way, and vain essay,
I courted fortune's favour, ur, 0;
Some cause unseen still stept between,
To frustrate each endeavour, 0:
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd;
Sometimes by friends forsaken, 0;
And when my hope was at the top,
I still was worst mistaken, O.

IV.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, With fortune's vain delusion, O,

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, And came to this conclusion, 0 : The past was bad, and the future hid; Its good or ill untried, 0;

But the present hour was in my pow'r, And so I would enjoy it, O.

V.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I,
Nor person to befriend me, O;
So I must toil, and sweat, and broil,
And labour to sustain me, O:
To plough and sow, to reap and mow,
My father bred me early, O;
For one, he said, to labour bred,

Was a match for fortune fairly, O.

VI.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, Thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O, Till down my weary bones I lay,

In everlasting slumber, O. No view nor care, but shun whate'er Might breed me pain or sorrow, 0: I live to-day as well's I may, Regardless of to-morrow, O:

VII.

But cheerful still, I am as well

As a monarch in a palace, O, Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, With all her wonted malice, 0: I make indeed my daily bread, But ne'er can make it farther, 0; But, as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

VIII.

When sometimes by my labour
I earn a little money, O,
Some unforeseen misfortune

Comes gen'rally upon me, O:
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect,
Or my good-natur'd folly, O;
But come what will, I've sworn it still,
I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

IX.

All you who follow wealth and power
With unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss,
You leave your view the farther, O:
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts,
Or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown
I will prefer before you, O.

"The above song," says the Poet, "is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over." [It abounds with manly sentiments, and exhibits fortitude of mind amid the sorrows of the disastrous year 1783. Much of the early history of the Poet may be traced in this song.]

John Barleycorn.

A BALLAD.

THERE were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
An' they ha'e swore a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;
And they ha'e swore a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began

To shew their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe:
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all-
He crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland !*

The Rigs o' Barley.

Tune-Corn Rigs are Bonnie.

I.

It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie:

The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
'Till 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.

II.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley:
I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely :
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

III.

I.lock'd her in my fond embrace !
Her heart was beating rarely:
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!

But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

IV.

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear;

I hae been merry drinkin'!

I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear;

I hae been happy thinkin':

[It is intimated by Burns that John Barleycorn is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the same name; the ancient ballad is printed by Jamieson, who took it from a black-letter copy preserved in Pepys' library. But the more ancient name of John Barleycorn was Allan-aMaut, in whose praise many songs still exist. "I am disposed," says Hogg, "to think with Jamieson, that Sir John Barleycorn had been originally an English ballad. I have heard old people sing it different from all the printed copies, when the following stanzas always occurred in it :

"John Barleycorn's the ae best chiel
That e'er plew'd sea or land;

But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,
An' corn rigs are bonnie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

["It is generally believed in the west of Scotland that Annie Ronald, afterwards Mrs. Paterson of Aikenbrae, was the inspirer of this charming song. The freedom and warmth of the words probably induced her to disown it in her latter days. The Poet was a frequent visiter at her father's house while he continued at Mossgiel ; and Mr. Ronald liked so much the conversation of his eloquent neighbour that he sat late with him on many occasions. This seems to have displeased another of his daughters, who said she "could na see ought about Robert Burns that would tempt her to sit up wi' him till twal o'clock at night." It is not known how far Annie Ronald joined in her sister's dislike of the Bard." CUNNINGHAM.]