JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. IMPROVED BY ROBERT BURNS. JOHN Anderson, my jo, John, I wonder what you mean, John Anderson, my jo, John, Her master-work was Man; She prov'd to be hae journey-work, John Anderson, my jo, John, Ye were my first conceit, And ye need na think it strange, John, Tho' some folks say ye're auld, John, But I think ye're ay the same to me, John Anderson, my jo, John, We've seen our bairns' bairus, I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no, Tho' the days are gone that we have seen, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, What pleasure does it gie, To see sae many sprouts, John, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo, John, John Anderson, my jo, John, Frae year to year we've past, But let na that affright us, John, John Anderson, my jo, John, SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. WILLIE Wastle dwalt on Tweed, The spot they call it Linkumdoddie, Willie was a wabster gude, Cou'd stown a clue wi' ony boddie; He had a wife was dour un' din, I wad na gie a button for her. She has an e'e, she has but ane, A clapper tongue wad deave a miller: She's bow-hough'd, she's hein-shinn'd, Auld baudrons by the ingle sits, An' wi' her loof her face a washin; She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; I wad nae gie a button for her. THEIR CALEDONIA. groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exhale the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me yon low-humble broom bow'rs, Where the blue bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they ?-the haunt o' the tyrant and slave. The slave's spicy forests, and gold bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views with disdain; He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains, Save love's willing fetters, the chains of his Jean. O LET ME IN THIS AE NIGHT. O LASSIE, art thou sleeping yet? Or art thou wakin, I would wit; O let me in this ae night, For pity's sake, this ae night, Out oe'r the moss, out o'er the muir O let me, &c. Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, And shield me frae the rain, jo. O let me in, &c. The bitter blast around me blaws, O let me in, &c. HER ANSWER. OTELL na me o' wind and rain, I tell you now this ae night, And ance for a' this ae night, The snellest blast, at mirkest hours, I tell you now, &c. The sweetest flow'r that deck'd the mead, Let simple maid the lesson read, I tell you now, &c. The bird that charm'd his summer-day, I tell you now, &c. THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE. THE Catrine woods were yellow seen, |