How does Johnie Mackerel do?
Aye, and Luke Gardener too?

Come love me, and never rue,
Robin Adair.

The unfortunate termination of a friend's courtship suggested this song to Burns: the concluding verse is happy and vigorous-there is much said in few words.

BLITHE WAS SHE.

Blithe, blithe and merry was she,
Blithe was she but and ben;

Blithe by the banks of Ern,

And blithe in Glenturit glen.

By Ochtertyre grows the aik,

On Yarrow banks the birken shaw;

But Phemie was a bonnier lass

Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw.

Her looks were like a flower in May,
Her smile was like a summer morn;
She tripped by the banks of Ern,

As light's a bird upon a thorn.

Her bonny face it was as meek

As

ony lamb upon a lea;

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet
As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e.

The Highland hills I've wander❜d wide,
And o'er the Lawlands I hae been;

But Phemie was the blithest lass

That ever trode the dewy green.

Burns says, "I composed these verses while I stayed at Ochtertyre with Sir William Murray. The lady, who was also at Ochtertyre at the same time, was the well known toast, Miss Euphemia Murray of Lentrose, who was called, and very justly, the Flower of Strathmore." To this notice by the poet, I have only to add, that his Muse called to the aid of the lady's charms an old song, of the same measure, from which the first lines of the present beautiful lyric are borrowed.

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.

Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care,
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang,
Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish

sang.

I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought
But man is a sodger, and life is a faught:
My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,
my lairdship nae monarch dare

And

my freedom's
touch.

fa',

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a':
When at the blithe end o' our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past!

Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae:
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure, or pain,
My warst word is-Welcome, and welcome again!

Burns wrote this little gay and happy song to an air of which he confesses himself very fond-"Lumps o' Pudding." He has written nothing of a joyous nature more felicitously. The old proverbial lore lends wisdom to the verse, the love of freedom is delicately expressed and vindicated, the sorrows of life are softened by song, and drink seems only to flow to set the tongue of the Muse a-moving. The poet accounts for his inspiration, on another occasion:

Just ae half mutchkin does me prime,

Aught less is little;

Then back I rattle on the rhyme,

As gleg's a whittle.

AULD ROB MORRIS.

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen,
He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men ;
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine,
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine.

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May;
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay;
As blithe and as artless as the lamb on the lea,
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee.

But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird,
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard;
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed,

The wounds I must hide that will soon be

my dead.

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ;
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane:
I wander my lane like a night-troubled ghaist,
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast.

O, had she but been of a lower degree,

I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me!
O, how past descriving had then been my bliss,
As now my distraction no words can express!

"Auld Rob Morris" has made mirth in Scotland for

many generations. The first "Robert" was coarse, free, and graphic; the second "Robert" came with an increase of humour from the hand of Ramsay, and with some abatement of the grossness; and "Robert" the third came forth a discreet, and delicate, and thoughtful personage from the hand of Robert Burns. The dramatic form of Ramsay's song adds greatly to its life and buoyancy; much of it was borrowed from the ancient lyric, and from the same place Burns took the two commencing lines of the present song.

MY JEANIE.

Come, let me take thee to my breast,
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder;
And I shall spurn as vilest dust

The warld's wealth and grandeur !
And do I hear my Jeanie own
That equal transports move her?
I ask for dearest life alone
That I may live to love her.

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure ;
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share,

Than sic a moment's pleasure: