How does Johnie Mackerel do? Come love me, and never rue, 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 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, 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 The Highland hills I've wander❜d wide, 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, sang. I whiles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought And my freedom's fa', A towmond o' trouble, should that be my Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 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, She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; But oh! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; O, had she but been of a lower degree, I then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me! "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, The warld's wealth and grandeur ! Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, Than sic a moment's pleasure: |