ET. 34.] MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.

"In the air My Wife's a Wanton Wee Thing, if a few lines smooth and pretty can be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made extempore to it; and though, on further study, I might give you something more profound, yet it might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so well as this random clink."- Burns to Mr. Thomson, Nov. 8, 1792.

SHE is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonny wee thing,1
This sweet wee wife o' mine.

With artless look and soul sincere,
Above all mean disguise.

For Celia thus my heart has moved,
Accept it, lovely fair;

I've liked before, but never loved,
Then let me not despair.

My fate before your feet I lay,
Sentence your willing slave;
Remember that though tyrants slay,
Yet heavenly powers save.
To bless is Heaven's peculiar grace,
Let me a blessing find;

And since you wear an angel's face,

O show an angel's mind!

1 Manuscript

"She is a winsome wee thing." The alter

ation was by Mr. Thomson.

I never saw a fairer,

I never lo'ed a dearer,

And niest my heart I'll wear her,
For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonny wee thing,

This sweet wee wife o' mine.

be lost

"The subject of the song is one of the most inter esting passages of my youthful days, and I own that I

should be much flattered to see the verses set to an air which would insure celebrity."— Burns to Mr Thomson, 14th Nov. 1792.

YE banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,

ET. 34.]

HIGHLAND MARY.

29

Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,

Your waters never drumlie!

There simmer first unfauld her robes,

And there the langest tarry;

For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.

muddy

How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom,
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasped her to my bosom !
The golden hours, on angel wings,
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life
Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' monie a vow, and locked embrace,
Our parting was fu' tender;
And, pledging aft to meet again,

We tore oursels asunder:

But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,

That nipt my flower sae early!

Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips
I aft hae kissed sae fondly,

And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!

And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN,

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE

ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT [NOV. 26, 1792].

In those days, the little theatre of Dumfries was pretty regularly open each winter, under the care of a Mr. Sutherland, whom we have already seen Burns patronizing while he resided at Ellisland. In the corps dramatique was a Miss Fontenelle, a smart and pretty little creature, who played Little Pickle in the Spoiled Child, and other such characters. Burns admired the performances of Miss Fontenelle, and was disposed to befriend her. We find him taxing his Muse in her behalf.

WHILE Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things, The fate of empires and the fall of kings; While quacks of state must each produce his plan,

And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the sexes' intermixed connection,
One sacred Right of Woman is Protection.
The tender flower that lifts its head elate,
Helpless must fall before the blasts of fate,
Sunk on the earth, defaced its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward the impending storm.

Our second Right - but needless here is caution;
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion;
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He'd die before he'd wrong it 'tis Decorum.
There was, indeed, in far less polished days,
A time when rough rude man had naughty
ways;

Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,

Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet.

Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are

fled;

Now, well-bred men - and you are all well

bred

Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.1

1 An ironical allusion to the annual saturnalia of the CaleAnian Hunt at Dumfries.