"Tibbie, I hae seen the day," is the earliest of all the lyric compositions of Burns. It has none of those felicitous touches and happy and vigorous thoughts, for which he became afterwards so much distinguished; yet it is lively and clever, and well worthy of a place. Who the saucy maiden was we may now perhaps inquire in vain. Happy is the lady on whom the sun of his fancy shone, for she will live long in light. I wish he had been more fastidious in his heroines.

O, WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN?

0, wat ye wha's in yon town
Ye see the e'enin sun upon?
The fairest dame's in yon town
That e'enin sun is shining on.

Now haply down yon gay green shaw
She wanders by yon spreading tree:
How blest ye flow'rs that round her blaw,
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e!

How blest ye birds that round her sing,

And welcome in the blooming year!

And doubly welcome be the spring,

The season to my Lucy dear!

:

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes of Ayr;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair.

Without my love, not a' the charms
O' Paradise could yield me joy;
But gie me Lucy in my arms,

And welcome Lapland's dreary sky.

My cave wad be a lover's bower,
Though raging winter rent the air;

And she a lovely little flower

That I wad tent and shelter there.

O sweet is she in yon town

Yon sinking sun's gaun down

A fairer than's in yon town

upon;

His setting beam ne'er shone upon.

If angry fate is sworn my foe,

And suffering I am doom'd to bear,
I careless quit aught else below;
But spare me, spare me, Lucy dear.

For while life's dearest blood is warm,
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart;

And she-as fairest is her form,

She has the truest, kindest heart.

It seems unlikely that Burns dedicated these fine verses to the honour of more than one lady; yet tradition is so perversely blind as to impute them to the influence of Mrs. Burns, while at the same time the name of the heroine, and authority of a far less dubious nature than any thing traditional, assign them to the charms of Lucy Johnstone, the accomplished lady of Mr. Oswald of Auchencruive. Like many of the poet's songs, it commences by imitating an ancient lyric; but the Muse only uses the old verse as a kind of vantage ground from which she may ascend into the region of original song with greater readiness: no one who reads it will imagine that it owes any of its beauty to

Some copies omit the name of Lucy, and substitute Jeanie, and the fourth verse presents the following variation :

The sun blinks blithe on yon town,
And on yon bonnie braes sae green;
But my delight in yon town,

And dearest pleasure, is my Jean.

LANGSYNE, BESIDE THE WOODLAND

BURN.

Langsyne, beside the woodland burn,

Amang the broom sae yellow,

I lean'd me 'neath the milk-white thorn,
On nature's mossy pillow;

A' round my seat the flow'rs were strew'd,
That frae the wild wood I had pu'd,

To weave mysel' a summer snood,
To pleasure my dear fellow.

I twin'd the woodbine round the rose,
Its richer hues to mellow;
Green sprigs of fragrant birk I chose,
To busk the sedge sae yellow.
The crow-flow'r blue, and meadow-pink,
I wove in primrose-braided link;
But little, little did I think

I should have wove the willow.

My bonnie lad was forc'd afar,
Tost on the raging billow;
Perhaps he's fa'en in bloody war,

Or wreck'd on rocky shallow.

Yet ay I hope for his return,

As round our wonted haunts I mourn;

And often by the woodland burn

I pu' the weeping willow.

The weeping willow, I am afraid, seldom hangs its long and melancholy boughs in natural Scottish landscape; and in this very pretty song, we must either consider it as an intruder or a figure of speech. The crown of sedge and the garland of willow are green in many an ancient poem and song; but I am sorry that Tannahill injured the effect of this beautiful composition by introducing them: they give the air of affectation to verses otherwise very natural and sweet.

I LOVE MY JEAN.

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,

For there the bonnie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best:

Where wild woods grow,

and rivers row,

Wi' mony a hill between ;

Both day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers,
Sae fragrant, sweet, and fair:
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,
Whose songs charm a' the air: