JOHN ANDERSON.

Tune-" John Anderson my jo."

I.

JOHN Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw;

But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

II.

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;

And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go ;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

The north is fruitful in John Andersons; but none of them can be compared with that of Burns. The old minstrel sings in Percy's Black-Book of Ballads :"John Anderson my jo, Come in as ye gae by;

And ye sall get a sheep's-head
Weel baken in a pie;
Weel baken in a pie,

And the haggis in a pat,

John Anderson my jo,

Come in an' ye's get that."

Brash and Reid gave what they called an improved "John Anderson" from the pen of Burns. The second stanza is clever :

"John Anderson my jo, John,

When nature first began
To try her cannie hand, John,

Her master-work was man ;
And you amang them a', John,

Sae trig frae tap to toe,

She proved to be nae journey-work,

John Anderson my jo."

The hand of Burns is so visible in this verse, that a singer might safely add it, were the song not long enough for the voice already.

OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH

AND FAIR.

Tune-" Awa Whigs, awa."

CHORUS.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae good at a'.

I.

OUR thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonnie bloom'd our roses;
But Whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.

II.

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust-
Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't;
And write their names in his black beuk,
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.

III.

Our sad decay in Church and State
Surpasses my descriving;

The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we hae done wi' thriving.

IV.

Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken;
Gude help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae gude at a'.

Burns trimmed up this jacobite song for the Museum, and added some bitter bits: the verses beginning with "Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust," and "Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap," are from his hand. Tradition supplies more:

"The deil he heard the strife o' tongues,

And rampin' cam' amang us;

But pitied us sae wi' cursed Whigs,

He turned an' wadna wrang us.'

The succession of the House of Hanover was long resented by the northern minstrels: the pleasant change of a poor electorate for " kingdoms three" was often hinted; and audacious rhymers averred that George the First was found

66 Sheughing kale and dibbling leeks"

by the messenger who announced the death of Queen Anne.

CA' THE EWES.

Tune Ca' the Ewes to the Knowes."

t

CHORUS.

Ca' the ewes to the knowes,

Ca' them whare the heather grows,

Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,

My bonnie dearie!

I.

As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.

Will

II.

ye gang
And see the waves sae sweetly glide,
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu' clearly.

down the water-side,