The "Sleeping Maggie" of our ancestors was a song of a very different stamp from this little clever lyric by Tannahill. It abounded in images of rustic mirth and enjoyment; and the language which embodied them was not the most select. Of the song nothing exists but the name; but the name is sure to survive as long as the people of Dumfriesshire continue to dance: for " Sleeping Maggie" is a favourite tune when the barn-floor is swept, the youths and maidens are assembled, and the fiddler slants his cheek over the strings.

THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA.

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine,

A place where body saw na';
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine
The gowden locks of Anna.
The hungry Jew in wilderness
Rejoicing o'er his manna,

Was naething to my hinny bliss
Upon the lips of Anna.

Ye monarchs, take the east and west,

Frae Indus to Savannah !

Gie me within my straining grasp

VOL. IV.

The melting form of Anna.

N

There I'll despise imperial charms,
An empress or sultana,

While dying raptures in her arms
I give and take with Anna!

Awa, thou flaunting god o' day!
Awa, thou pale Diana!

Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray
When I'm to meet my Anna.
Come, in thy raven plumage, Night,

Sun, moon, and stars, withdrawn a';

And bring an angel pen to write

My transports wi’ my Anna.

It was seldom that Burns strained and laboured to express love and rapture; but here his Muse taxes herself to three verses of song, rather as a penance than a pleasure. I believe, however, that Anna with the golden locks was no imaginary person : like the dame in the old song, "She brewed gude ale for gentlemen;" and while she served the bard with a pint of wine, allowed her customer leisure to admire her, “as hostler wives should do." The "Lass with the gowden locks" was a liberal lady, like the "Lassie with the lintwhite locks." A note imputed to Burns in the Museum says, "I think this is the best love song I ever composed." If the poet wrote this, I am sorry for it. I hope that the words are apocryphal; and I believe they are.

MY BONNIE MARY.

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
An' fill it in a silver tassie;
That I may drink before I go,

A service to my bonnie lassie !

The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith;

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry;

The ship rides by the Berwick-law,

And I maun leave

my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready;

The shouts o' war are heard afar,

The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore
Would make me langer wish to tarry ;
Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar,—
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary.

In the notes on Johnson's Museum, Burns claims all this song as his composition except the first four lines. It is written to the old air, called "The silver tassie," and has more of the chivalrous ballad style about it than what was customary with the poet. He seldom went back into old times and old feelings: he stamped off the passing spirit of the moment with unequalled vigour ; the vision of ancient war which the hero saw at Berwick-law came not frequently upon his fancy.

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY

LAD.

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mither and a' should gae
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,
And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,
And come as ye were na comin to me.

mad,

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad:
Though father and mither and a' should gae mad,
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,
Gang by me as though that ye car'd na a flie:
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee,
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me.

lad:

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad;
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my
Though father and mither and a' should

gae

mad,

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me,
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;
But court na anither, though joking ye be,
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

cr

Whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad," owes its poetry to Burns, and its tune to John Bruce, a musician of Dumfries, an admirable fiddler, a vehement Jacobite, and a fiery highlander. An old song of the same name once existed the title was more peculiarly Scottish, Whistle, and I'll come till ye, my lad;" and it seems to have lent the chorus and the character to the present song. Burns amended the fourth line thus:

:

Thy Jeanie will venture wi' ye, my lad;

and he vindicates the alteration. "A dame whom the graces have attired in witchcraft, and whom the loves have armed with lightning,—a fair one-herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment-and dispute her commands if you dare!" I have restored the original line. Jeanie's taste was sometimes as incorrect

as the poet's love.

THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T.

O wha my babie-clouts will buy?
Wha will tent me when I cry?
Wha will kiss me whare I lie?

The rantin dog the daddie o't.—

Wha will own he did the faut?
Wha will buy my groanin-maut?

Wha will tell me how to ca't?

The rantin dog the daddie o't.