I'll ay ca' in by yon town, And by yon garden green again ; And see my bonnie Jean again. Popular report has dedicated this charming little song to more than one beauty. The air was one of Burns's favourites, and the subject had caught his fancy, for he has indulged us with another song of the same character, of greater length, but not of greater loveliness. An old song supplied him with a few words: In simmer when the hay was mawn, Blithe Bessie, in the milking shiel, Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will; It's ye hae wooers mony a ane, And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken; Then wait a wee, and cannie wale A routhie but, a routhie ben: There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre; Take this frae me, my bonnie hen, It's plenty beets the lover's fire. For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen Ae blink o' him I wadna gie For Buskie-glen an' a' his gear. O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught; But ay fu' han't is fechtin best; A hungry care's an unco care: But some will spend, and some will spare, An' wilfu' fouk maun hae their will; Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill. gear will buy me rigs o' land, And gear will buy me sheep and kye; But the tender heart o' leesome luve The gowd and siller canna buy. Light is the burden love lays on: I wish Burns had written more of his songs in this lively and dramatic way. The enthusiastic affection of the maiden, and the suspicious care and antique wisdom of the "dame of wrinkled eild," animate and lengthen the song without making it tedious. Robie has indeed a faithful and eloquent mistress, who vindicates true love and poverty against all the insinuations of one whose speech is spiced with very pithy and biting pro verbs. MY MARY. My Mary is a bonnie lass, She lives ahint yon sunny knowe, Where spreading birks and hazels throw 'Tis not the streamlet-skirted wood, That gars me wait in solitude Among the wild-sprung flow'rs; Down frae the bank out-owre the lea; As through the broom she scours. Yestreen I met my bonnie lassie We raptur'd sunk in ither's arms, That erl❜d her my own. The heroine of this song is surrounded with such captivating landscape, that I am at a loss whether to admire the lady or the land she lives in most. The lover himself seems to have been so sensible of the charms of inanimate nature, that he thinks it necessary to warn us that he lingers among the burns and bowers for another purpose. It is one of Tannahill's songs, and a very beautiful one. HAD I A CAVE. Had I a cave on some wild distant shore, Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar, There would I weep my woes, There seek my lost repose, Till grief my eyes should close, Ne'er to wake more. Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare Laugh o'er thy perjury, What peace is there! Good fortune, much more than lyric genius, must assist the poet who seeks to supply the crinkum-crankum tune of Robin Adair with verses meriting the name of poetry. The ancient song, too, is as singular as the air: You're welcome to Paxton, Young Robin Adair ; You're welcome but asking, Sweet Robin Adair! |