wine, has poured but little drunken inspiration into verse. The ancient verses which suggested this song to Burns are not unknown, nor do they deserve to be forgotten.

O, ilka day my wife tells me,

That ale and brandy will ruin me;

But though gude drink shou'd be my dead,
Ise have this written on my head:

O, gudewife, count the lawin,

The lawin, the lawin;

Then, gudewife, count the lawin,

And bring a coggie mair.

The hero of the old song seems resolved not to settle with the hostess over an empty measure, and it is evident he will as little rise from a full one.

THE BONNIE WEE THING.

Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,

I wad wear thee in my bosom,
Lest my jewel I should tine.
Wishfully I look and languish

In that bonnie face o' thine;
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish,
Lest my wee thing be na mine.

66

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty,

In ae constellation shine;

To adore thee is my duty,

Goddess o' this soul o' mine!
Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,
Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,

I wad wear thee in my bosom,

Lest my jewel I should tine.

very

Composed on my little idol, the charming, lovely Davies:" such are the words of Burns which accompany this song in the Reliques. The song corresponds with the character which he draws, it is brief and very beautiful. To the same lady the poet addresses one of his most laboured letters - he is apologizing for his indolence. "In vain remorse rears her horrent crest, and rouses all her snakes: beneath the deadly-fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, their wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter in the chink of a ruined wall." The ease and nature of his verse seldom found the way into the poet's prose; and though many passages of his letters are written with great ease and animation, and sparkling with poetic imagery, yet, on the whole, they are laboured and cumbrous, compared with his inimitable

verse.

EVAN BANKS.

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires;
To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray,
Home of my youth, he leads the day.
O banks to me for ever dear!

O stream whose murmurs still I hear!
All, all my hopes of bliss reside
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.

And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye;
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine,
Oft in the vocal bowers recline?
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde?

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound;
Ye lavish woods that wave around,
And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to memory brings,
All that on Evan's border springs?
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side:

Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.

Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost?
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasures bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!

Nor more may aught my steps divide

From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.

I found this song, when I was a boy, in an old Magazine, in a shepherd's shiel among the moorlands of Nithsdale, and I was so charmed with its descriptive beauty, that it was impressed on my memory at a couple of readings. It was printed in Burns's Reliques, "by mistake, for one of his productions; this was corrected by one of the Reviews, which took the song from Burns and gave it to Miss Williams.

And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye.

These are sweet and delicate lines, and worthy of the great poet to whom the song was erroneously imputed.

THE CRADLE SONG.

Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,

O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing, For thou art doubly dear to me. Thy daddie now is far awa,

A sailor laddie o'er the sea; But hope ay hechts his safe return you my bonnie lamb an' me.

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Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,

O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,

For thou art doubly dear to me. Thy face is simple, sweet an' mild, Like ony summer e’ening fa'; Thy sparkling e'e is bonnie black;

Thy neck is like the mountain snaw.

Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,

O saftly close thy blinkin' e'e! Baloo, baloo, my wee wee thing,

For thou art doubly dear to me. O but thy daddie's absence lang Would break my dowie heart in twa,