Is there nae poet, burning keen, for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
For comedy abroad he needna toil;

A fool and knave are plants of every soil.
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece:

There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would shew the tragic Music in a' her glory.

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell ?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce?
How here, even here, he first unsheathed the
sword

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; And after monie a bloody, deathless doing, Wrenched his dear country from the jaws of ruin?

O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:
A woman though the phrase may seem un-
civil-

As able and as cruel as the devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, But Douglasses were heroes every age:

And though your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right suc- roll
ceeds,

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would take the Muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them,
And where ye justly can commend, commend

them;

And aiblins when they winna stand the test, perhaps Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their

best!

Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation,
Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle Time, and lay him on his strive with
back!

For us and for our stage should ony spier, ask "Wha's aught thae chiels maks Who are those fellows a' this bustle here?"

My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you !

We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like guid mithers, shore before you threaten

strike.

And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness

We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks:
God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but

thanks.

CONTRIBUTIONS

TO THE THIRD VOLUME OF JOHNSON'S MUSEUM.

TIBBIE DUNBAR.

TUNE-Johnny M'Gill.

The third volume of the Scots Musical Museum had been going on, somewhat more slowly than the second, but with an equal amount of assistance from Burns. Besides the songs already cited since the date of the second volume, he contributed many which, as they bore no particular reference to his own history, nor any other trait by which the exact date of their composition could be ascertained, are here presented in one group. Several of them are, however, only old songs mended or extended by Burns.

O WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? Wilt thou ride on a horse or be drawn in a

car,

Or walk by my side, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?

I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money,
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly;
But say thou wilt hae me, for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dun- shift
bar!

THE GARDENER WI' HIS PAIDLE.

TUNE- The Gardeners' March.

It will be found that Burns subsequently produced. a new version of this song, changing the burden at the close of the stanzas.

WHEN rosy Morn comes in wi' showers,
To deck her gay green birken bowers,
Then busy, busy are his hours,

The gardener wi' his paidle.1

The crystal waters gently fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',

The scented breezes round him blaw,
The gardener wi' his paidle.

When purple Morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,

Then through the dews he maun repair,
The gardener wi' his paidle.

When Day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws of Nature's rest,

He flies to her arms he lo'es the best,
The gardener wi' his paidle.

1 A long staff with an iron spike, serving sometimes as a narrow spade.

HIGHLAND HARRY.

Of this song Burns says: "The chorus I picked up from an old woman in Dunblane; the rest of the song is mine." It is evident that the poet has understood the chorus in a Jacobite sense, and written his own verses in that strain accordingly. Mr. Peter Buchan has, nevertheless, ascertained that the original song related to a love attachment between Harry Lumsdale, the second son of a Highland gentleman, and Miss Jeanie Gordon, daughter to the Laird of Knockespock, in Aberdeenshire. The lady was married to her cousin, Habichie Gordon, a son of the Laird of Rhynie; and some time after, her former lover having met her and shaken her hand, her husband drew his sword in anger, and lopped off several of Lumsdale's fingers, which Highland Harry took so much to heart that he soon after died. — See Hogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, ii. 197.

My Harry was a gallant gay,

Fu' stately strode he on the plain:
But now he's banished far away;

I'll never see him back again.
O for him back again!

O for him back again!

I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.