tour of the world among the English-speaking race in both hemispheres.] Tune-"Failte na Miosg." JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. [A lovelier or purer lyric than this was never penned by song-writer. Yet the old ditty for [My heart's in the Highlands, my heart which it is the substitute, if it was flavoured is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer ;] Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe with wit, was tainted also with licentiousness. In cases like this, the foul original, placed in the crucible and passed into the furnace, came out at last, under the hand of Burns, pure as thricerefined gold, and stamped authentically, as such, for ever in its new form with the hall-mark of his genius. The melody retained from the old My heart's in the Highlands wherever I song thus newly applied is stated to have been go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North! The birthplace of valour, the country of worth ; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. a piece of sacred music in the old Catholic times. John Anderson in the flesh was traditionally the Town Piper of Kelso.] Tune-" John Anderson, my jo." JOHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first acquent ; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; Farewell to the mountains high covered But now your brow is beld, John, with snow! Farewell to the straths and green valleys below! Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods! Farewell to the torrents and loud-pour ing floods! [My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer ;] Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hills 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. O, a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer, An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing; A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An' a' the lang night am as happy 's a king. Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins, O marrying Bess, to gi'e her a slave: Blest be the hour she cooled in her linnens, And blithe be the bird that sings on her grave! Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, An' come to my arms and kiss me again! Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie ! And blest be the day I did it again. But here, alas! for me nae mair Shall birdie charm or floweret smile; Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr! Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Ballochmyle! TO MARY IN HEAVEN. [This impassioned effusion was composed on the 20th of October, 1789, at Ellisland, Leing the anniversary of the day upon which Burns first heard of the death of Mary Campbell. Although he was suffering at the time from a severe cold, he toiled throughout that day in the harvest field, to all appearance in no way dejected. When the evening twilight had closed in he sauntered out into the barn-yard, whither his wife followed him, begging him urgently, more than once, on account of the frost, that he should go indoors to the fireside. Remaining still in the open air, however, after he had again and again promised compliance with her request, he was found by Mrs. Burns, upon her going out once more in quest of him, stretched upon a heap of straw gazing at one of the planets which THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. shone resplendently in the heavens. Yielding at [The heroine of this song was Maria (after wards Mrs Cranston), eldest daughter of Sir John Whitefoord, of Ballochmyle. The melody was the production of Allan Masterton of Edinburgh.] Tune-"Braes o' Ballochmyle." THE Catrine woods were yellow seen, The flowers decayed on Catrine lea, Nae laverock sang on hillock green, But nature sickened on the e'e. Through faded groves Maria sang, Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while, And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle! Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, Again ye 'll flourish fresh and fair; Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, Again ye 'll charm the vocal air. last to his wife's entreaties, he returned with her to the house, and going at once to his desk, wrote out, according to Lockhart, "with all the ease of one copying from memory, these sublime and pathetic verses."] Tune-"Death of Captain Cook." THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget? Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where, by the winding Ayr, we met, To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace Ah, little thought we 't was our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, THE Where is thy place of blissful rest? [This was a paraphrase by Burns of a ballad written by the Rev. John Barclay of Edinburgh, founder of the sect called Bereans. As the ballad stood originally, it was a dialogue in rhyme between Will Lick-ladle and Tom Cleancogue. As allusions in the subjoined indicate, Hear'st thou the groans that rend his the battle of Sheriff-Muir was fought out between breast? —0— EPPIE ADAIR. [According to Peter Buchan, the refrain of the following song was suggested by the Earl of Kilmarnock's Lament for his Wife. The Countess's name, as has been pointed out, how the Duke of Argyle and the Earl of Mar.] Tune-"Cameronian Rant." "OH, cam' ye here the fight to shun, ever, was not Eppie, she having been the Lady Tune-"My Eppie." I swear to be true to O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, The red-coat lads, wi' black cockauds, And mony a bouk did fa', man: |