THE RED, RED ROSE.

In Witherspoon's Collection of Scots Songs.

"Do you know," says Burns, in a letter to Mr. Thomson, "the beautiful little fragment in Witherspoon's collection of Scots Songs, called, 'Oh, gin my love?' The thought it contains is inexpressibly beautiful, and quite, so far as I know, original. It is too short for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to eke a stanza to it, but in vain."

"After balancing myself for a few minutes on the hind legs of my elbow-chair, I produced the following. That they are far inferior to the foregoing I frankly confess; but if worthy of insertion at all, they might be first in place, as every poet, who knows anything of his trade, will husband his best thoughts for a concluding stroke."

Oh, were my love yon lilac fair,

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring;
And I a bird to shelter there,

When wearied on my little wing;

How I wad mourn when it was torn
By autumn wild and winter rude!
But I wad sing on wanton wing

When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd.

A third stanza, written by a Mr. Richardson, appears in some collections; but it is scarcely worthy of association with these two. The air is Highland, and was formerly known as "Lord Balgonie's favourite."

G

OH, MY LOVE IS LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.

ANONYMOUS.-Revised by Burns for "Johnson's Musical Museum."

Он, my love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June;
Oh, my love is like a melody

That's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
Sae deep in love am I;

And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun;
Oh, I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only love,
And fare thee weel awhile!

And I will come again, my love,

Though it were ten thousand mile.

OH, POORTITH CAULD.

BURNS. Air-"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

OH, poortith cauld and restless love,
Ye wreck my peace between ye;
Yet poortith a' I could forgive,
An' 'twere na for my Jeanie.

Oh, why should fate sic pleasure have,
Life's dearest bands untwining?
Or why sae sweet a flower as love
Depend on fortune's shining?

This warld's wealth when I think on,
It's pride and a' the lave o't;

Fie, fie, on silly coward man,
That he should be the slave o't!

Oh, why, &c.

Her een sae bonnie blue betray
How she repays my passion;
But prudence is her o'er word aye,
She talks o' rank and fashion.

Oh, why, &c.

Oh, wha can prudence think upon,

And sic a lassie by him?

Oh, wha can prudence think upon,

And sae in love as I am?

Oh, why, &c.

How blest the humble cottar's fate!

He woos his simple dearie;

The silly bogles wealth and state

Can never make him eerie.

Oh, why, &c.

THE LEA-RIG.

BURNS. Air-The Lea-Rig."

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star

Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo, And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and weary 0; Down by the burn where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen at midnicht hour
I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O,

If through that glen I gaed to thee,
My ain kind dearie O.

Although the night were ne'er sae wild,

An' I were ne'er sae wearie O,

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun,
To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;
At noon the fisher seeks the glen,
Along the burn to steer, my jo:
Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey;

It maks my heart sae cheery O,
To meet thee on the lea-rig,

My ain kind dearie O.

Burns, in sending this song to George Thomson, which he had founded upon an olden composition with the same title, says, "Who shall rise up, and say, 'Go to! I will make a better' (then an old song)? For instance, on reading over the 'Lea-rig,' I immediately set trying my hand upon it, and after all, I could make nothing more of it than the following, which, Heaven knows, is poor enough!"

The Autumn mourns her rip'ning corn
By early Winter's ravage torn,
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.

'Tis not the surging billows' roar,
"Tis not that fatal, deadly shore;
Though death in ev'ry shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales,
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past, unhappy loves!

Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those-
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr!

AGAIN REJOICING NATURE SEES.

BURNS. Air-"I wish my love were in a myre."

AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hue, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, All freshly steep'd in morning dew.

And maun I still on Menie doat,

And fear the scorn that's in her ee?
For it's jet, jet black, and it's like a hawk,
And it winna let a bodie be.