ordinary phraseology, that he begged she would resume her accustomed tone of familiarity and friendship. This is a very strong argument in favour of the merely imaginary nature of so many passionate descriptions of beauty and allusions to rapturous meetings and melancholy separations. How else are we to account for his verses in honour of "Jessie Lewars," the last and most beautiful of his songs? Just look at the circumstances of that composition. Jessie Lewars was the kindest nurse, the most devoted attendant on his sick bed-very young, very innocent, and the daughter of one of his favourite companions in the Excise. He was grateful to her for her kindness to his wife and children, and, in one of the intervals of ease, called for pen and ink, and wrote a song in her honour. What do we see in this song? The grief of a hopeless lover-the impassioned admiration, the warm address, which that description of poem requires, but having no reference to the state of his own feelings towards Jessie Lewars. His attachment to her was that of an affectionate and grateful friend-he looked on her almost as a daughter; but once put the pen into his hand, once let him think of her as the heroine of a song, away go such sober sentiments; they become elevated into a far warmer sphere-kindliness becomes love, and gratitude passion: Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, Altho' thou maun never be mine, Altho' even hope is denied; Than aught in the world beside-Jessy! I mourn through the gay, gaudy day, I guess by the dear angel smile, 'Gainst fortune's fell cruel decree ?-Jessy! Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet, As another instance of the metamorphosis which all his feelings underwent the moment he threw them into the form of song, let us see what he makes of the admiration excited in him by ladies of a rank so far above his own that no thought of winning their affection could enter his mind. Song was, in fact, to him merely the language of love; and whatever he put into his magic cauldron, whether esteem, or respect, or reverence, the result was always the same. Pour what you chose into the conjuror's bottle, nothing came out but love. The beautiful Lucy Johnstone, says Allan Cunningham, married to Oswald, of Auchencruive, was the heroine of "Wat ye wha's in yon town," a lady of lofty station, an heiress, and a toast-and thus she is sung by the married gauger : Now haply down yon gay green shaw, How blest ye birds that round her sing, And doubly welcome be the spring, The sun blinks blithe on yon town, But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms And welcome Lapland's dreary sky! If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear For while life's dearest blood is warm, That e'enin sun is shining on. On a visit for a single day to the minister of Lochmaben, Dumfriesshire, he is very much pleased with the beauty and manners of his host's young daughter, the blue-eyed Jean Jeffrey. What was the form this feeling took in song? He threatens, if she refuses his love, to die for her sake! I gaed a waefu' gate yestreen, She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she wyl'd; To her twa een sae bonnie blue. Many other instances might be given, but these will suffice to relieve the memory of the poet from the imputation of being a professed Lothario, Burns, in fact, seems to have been a hypocrite the wrong way, and to have affected more vices than he possessed. It is not indeed surprising that the number of those amorous effusions should have given rise to the reports of bis dissolute life. He wrote so constantly in the character of a passionate admirer of the fair sex, that at last people thought "himself must be the hero of his story." You may have heard |