John Anderson, my jo, John, Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson, my jo, John, Frae year to year we've past, John Anderson, my jo, John, In the first volume of a collection, entitled, Poetry, Original and Selected, printed by Messrs. Brash & Reid of Glasgow, this Song was first said to have been improved by Robert Burns. It is now usually printed as it appeared in that collection, and Dr. CURRIE of Liverpool gives the following remarks upon it. "The stanza with which this song, inserted by Messrs. Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked, but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. In re JEAN ANDERSON, MY JO. It's true she first made Man, Jean, Till Heaven in pity sent him, Jean, Tho' some may say I'm auld, Jean, gard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two stanzas that are unquestionably our Bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given to the world as the production of BURNS. If there were no other mark of their spurious origin, the sixth line of the sixth stanza, Our hearts were ne'er our foe, would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in which our Bard has adopted defective rhymes, but a single instance cannot be produced, in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought in false grammar. These additional stanzas are not however without merit, and they may serve to prolong the pleasure which every person of taste must feel, from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music, with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting." In conformity to the judgment of Dr. CURRIE, the verse usually printed first is here omitted; one of those which are indisputably Burns's is substituted in its place, the other stands last. Our bonnie bairns' bairns, Jean, This surely maun be likest it, Tho' age has sillar'd owre my pow, An' eild ne'er comes alane, Jean, Yet we've nae cause for sic complaint, In innocence we've spent our days, It's now a lang, lang time, Jean, To sprachel up life's hill, Jean; Our sun is wearin' low; Sae let us quietly sink to rest, Jean Anderson, my jo! DONALD OF DUNDEE. YOUNG Donald is the blythest lad Whene'er I gang to yonder grove, Tho' mither frets both air and late, But Donald of Dundee. When last we rang'd the banks of Tay, I ken the youth will ay prove kind, TWEEDSIDE. WHAT beauties does Flora disclose? D No daisy, nor sweet blushing rose, The warblers are heard in the grove, Let us see how the primroses spring; How does my love pass the long day? While happily she lies asleep? 'Tis she does the virgins excel; No beauty with her may compare; ? She's fairest where thousands are fair. Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed?* * The following information respecting this song has been collected by BURNS. "In Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany, he tells us that about thirty of the songs in that publication were the works of some young gentlemen of his acquaintance; which songs are marked with the letters D. C. &c.-Old Mr. TYTLER, of Woodhouselee, the worthy and able defender of the beauteous |