And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld langsyne, &c. * THE BLATHRIE O'T. WHEN I think on this warld's pelf, And the little wee share I hae o't to myself, The Editor of the Reliques of BURNS says, that the Bard "sometimes wrote poems in the old ballad style, which, for reasons best known to himself, he gave to the world as songs of the olden time. The ballad of Auld Langsyne was introduced in this ambiguous manner, though there exist proofs that the two best stanzas of it are indisputably his." Whether it is to be presumed from this, that BURNS wrote the whole of the song, the Editor of this work shall not determine, as he is not aware of the nature of the proofs alluded to, of BURNS having been the writer even of two verses of it. He shall only state what BURNS has himself said on the subject, leaving it to his readers to decide the point for themselves. In a letter to Mr. THOMPSON, inclosing the song, he says, "One song more and I have done: Auld langsyne. The air is but mediocre; but the following song, the old song of the olden times, and which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air.” In a letter to Mrs. DUNLOP likewise, with whom he constantly corresponded, and to whom he also communicated the song, he thus writes,---“ Is not the Scotch phrase, Auld langsyne, exceedingly expressive. There is an old song and tune which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast in old Scotch songs: I shall give you the verses on the other sheet.--Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven-inspired poet who composed this glorious fragment! There is more of the fire of native genius in it than half a dozen of modern English Bacchanalians." And how the lass that wants it is by the lads forgot, Jockie was the laddie that held the pleugh, He thinks nae mair o' me that wears the plaiden coat: Jenny was the lassie that mucked the byre, But now she is clad in her silken attire; And Jockie says he loo's her, and swears he's me forgot: May the shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't. But a' this shall never daunton me, Sae lang as I keep my fancy free; For the lad that's sae inconstant, he is nae worth a groat: May the shame fa' the gear and the blathrie o't. MY NANIE'S AWA. TUNE-" There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.” The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands adorn, Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and grey, ROY'S WIFE OF ALDIVALLOCH. Roy's wife of Aldivalloch, As I cam o'er the braes of Balloch. O she was a cantie quean, Weel could she dance the Highland walloch; Or I'd been Roy of Aldivalloch. Her hair sae fair, her een sae clear, To me she ever will be dear, Though she's for ever left her Johnnie. THE LASSIE I LOO BEST OF A'. HAE ye seen, in the calm dewy morning, The lassie I loo best of a'; But far frae the hame o' my lassie, Her hair is the wing o' the blackbird, O love, thou'rt a dear fleeting pleasure! * CONTENTED WI' LITTLE. TUNE-" Lumps o' Pudding." CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair, Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, I gie them a skelp, as they're creepin alang, Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. *This beautiful song was written by one of the sons of BURNS, (the eldest we believe) now residing in London; and, for aught we know, it was his first and only production. It affords a strong proof, however, that the son inherits no small portion of that genius for poetry which raised his father to the first rank among the Bards of his country. We may almost venture to say, that the descriptions contained in it cannot be equalled by any thing in the strains of OSSIAN, or in the still more luxuriant poetry of the East, to which, indeed, it bears a nearer affinity. Must it not be matter of regret with every lover of Scottish song, that the author of such a piece favours the world with no more of his productions? I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', Blind chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way; * This exquisite Bacchanalian piece, by BURNS, was communicated to Mr. THOMPSON for insertion in his work. The following extract, in which the song is spoken of in terms of unqualified approbation, is from a letter written by that gentleman, and will be found, it is hoped, highly interesting. "I acknowledge, my dear Sir, you are not only the most punctual, but the most delectable correspondent I ever met with. To attempt flattering you never entered my head: the truth is, I look back with surprise at my impudence, in so frequently nibbling at lines and couplets of your incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you had served me right, you would have sent me to the devil. On the contrary, however, you have all along condescended to invite my criticism with so much courtesy, that it ceases to be wonderful, if I have sometimes given myself the airs of a reviewer. Your last budget demands unqualified praise. Lumps o' Pudding shall certainly make one of my family dishes; you have cooked it so capitally, that it will please all palates. Do give us a few more of this cast when you find yourself in good spirits: these convivial songs are more wanted than those of the amorous kind, of which we have great choice. Besides, one does not often meet with a singer capable of giving the proper effect to the latter, while the former are easily sung, and acceptable to every body." |