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Lanely night comes on,

A' the house are sleeping,
I think on the bonie lad
That has my heart a keeping.

When I sleep I dream,

When I wauk I'm eirie;
Sleep I canna get,
For thinkin' o'



Lanely night comes on,

A' the house are sleeping,
I think on my bonie lad,

An I bleer my een wi' greetin!
Ay wauken, 0, wauken ay and wearie!
Sleep I canna get, for thinkin o' ny dearie.



Ye're like to the timmer o'yon rotten wood,

Ye're like to the bark o'yon rotten tree; Ye slip frae me like a knotless thread,

An' ye'll crack your credit wi' mae than me.

AMONG the MS. papers of Burns, that fell into the hands of the Editor, was one containing memoranda of Songs that he intended to illustrate with his remarks. In the number are noticed the fine ballad of · Donocht Head, and also the ballad of · Watty and Meg.' 'As the first is but little known in England, and the other not known at all, though it is so popular in Scotland, the Editor avails bimself of the present opportunity to present them to his readers.



Keen blaws the wind o'er Donocht-Head,*

The snaw drives snelly thro' the dale,
The Gaberlunzie tirls my sneck,

And shivering tells his waefu' tale.
“ Cauld is the night, let me in,

“ And dinna let your minstrel fa',
“ And dinna let his windin-sheet
“Be naething but a wreath o' snaw!

* A mountain in the North.

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“ Full ninety winters hae I seen,

“ And pip'd where gor-cocks whirring flew, “ And mony a day ye’ve danc'd, I ween,

To lilts which frae my drone I blew.” My Eppie wak’d, and soon she cry'd,

“ Get up, Guidman, and let him in; “ For weel ye ken the winter night

“ Was short when he began his din." My Eppie's voice, O wow it's sweet!

E'en tho' she bans and scaulds awee; But when it's tun'd to sorrow's tale,

O haith, it's doubly dear to me! Come in, auld Carl! I'll steer my fire,

I'll mak it bleeze a bonie flame; Your blude is thin, ye’ve tint the gate,

Ye should na stray sae far frae hame. « Nae hame have I,” the minstrel said,

“ Sad party strife o'erturn'd my ha'; “ And, weeping at the eve o' life,

« I wander thro' a wreath o'snaw.*


* This affecting poem was long attributed to Burns. He thus remarks on it. “ Donocht-Head is not mine: I would give ten pounds it were. It appeared first in the Edinburgh Herald ; and came to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle post-mark

on it."


The reader is here presented with an exquisite picture from low life, drawn with all the fidelity and exactness of Teniers, or Ostade, and enlivened with the humour of Hogarth. The story excites as much interest as if it had been written in a dramatic form, and really represented. The interest heightens as it proceeds, and is supported with wonderful spirit to the close of the poem.

It must have been in no small degree gratifying to the feelings of the author, who published it anonymously, that during a rapid sale of seven or eight editions, the public universally ascribed it to the pen of Burns. The author of Will and Jean,' or Scotland's Scaith," had the candour to acknowledge to the Editor that he was indebted to this exquisite poem for the foundation of that popular performance.

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