WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE O'T. First when Maggie was my care, Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, How we live, my Meg and me, Wha I wish were maggots' meat, I could write-but Meg maun see't— No lady would be thought ambitious who wished to be considered the heroine of this brief and pithy song. Burns wrote it as a speculation upon matrimonial happiness, and with the wish of supplanting the ancient song of "Whistle o'er the lave o't," which it has not wholly succeeded in accomplishing. The old song is still living, though scarcely worthy of existence : She sent her daughter to the well, Better she had gane hersell; She missed a foot, and down she fell Whistle o'er the lave o't. And so it goes on, meaning much more than it openly expresses. THE PLAID AMANG THE HEATHER. The wind blew hie owre muir and lea, The rain rain'd sair; nae shelter near But my love's plaid amang the heather. Close to his breast he held me fast;- As my luve's plaid amang the heather! "Mid wind and rain he tauld his tale; It lap sae quick I cou'dna speak, But silent sigh'd amang the heather. The storm blew past ;—we kiss'd in haste; The bowls row'd right amang the heather. Now Hymen's beam gilds bank and stream, Kind-hearted lad amang the heather. This I believe is not a popular song; nor is it one of those compositions for which the author has shown any particular regard, or his admirers any marked affection. Neither has it much novelty of sentiment or originality of conception to recommend it. Nevertheless, for flowing ease and natural felicity of expression, it surpasses any of the other songs of Hector Macneill. A lover's plaid, and a bed of heath, are favourite topics with the northern Muse; when the heather is in bloom it is worthy of becoming the couch of beauty. A sea of brown blossom, undulating as far as the eye can reach, and swarming with wild-bees, is a fine sight. COME UNDER MY PLAIDIE. Come under my plaidie, the night's gaun to fa'; Gae 'wa wi' your plaidie! auld Donald, gae 'wa, I'm gaun to meet Johnie, he's young and he's bonnie; Dear Marion, let that flee stick fast to the wa', My father ay tauld me, my mither an' a', Ye'd make a gude husband, and keep me ay braw; I hae little tocher, ye've made a gude offer; She crap in ayont him, beside the stane wa', O the deil's in the lasses! they gang now sae braw, Till they meet wi' some Johnie that's youthfu' and bonnie, And they'll gie ye horns on ilk haffet to claw. |