was, in less fastidious times than these, a great favourite, and became the companion of a bridal song or chant of the same character, bearing the graphic title of "Bab at the Bolster." To omit a song carrying the stamp of other days so legibly upon it could not be done in a work which exhibits the labours of the lyric Muse, from the rude and lively verses of her early days down to the more dainty and polished productions of the present time; and to republish it as the voice of tradition pre sented it to Herd would have been an offence against propriety and decorum.

THE CARLE OF KELLIEBURN BRAES.

There dwalt a carle on Kellieburn braes,
And he had a wife was the plague o' his days;
Ae day as the carle was hauding the plow,
Up came the devil, says, "how d'ye do?"
I've got a bad wife, sir,—that's a' my complaint,
For, saving your presence, to her you're a saint.

It's neither your colt nor your cow that I crave,
But gie me your wife, man, and her I shall have.
O welcome! most kindly, the glad carle said,
Ye'll no keep her lang, and that I'm afraid.
I'll lay baith my plow and my pettle to wad,
That if ye can match her, ye're waur than ye're ca'd.

Auld Clootie took kimmer fu' kind on his back,
And away like a pedler he trudged wi' his pack;
He came to the pit, and he shook her aboon, s
Till the brass buckles melted like snow in her shoon.
The wee fiends look'd up wi' loud laughter and din,
And Cloots gae a shout and then whomel'd her in.

She dropt on her feet, and in Satan's arm-chair

She clapt herself down with so regal an air,

That the fiend-imps came round wi' a stare and a shout, And she gae them a kick, and she lent them a clout. On Belzebub's dog, at the door o' his den,

She frown'd-the tyke howl'd, and the carlin gaed ben.

A reekit wee devil glower'd over the wa',
O help! master, help! else she'll ruin us a'.

The deil caught the carlin wi' mickle ado,
And sought out the auld man hauding the plow:
And loudly the gray carle ranted and sang,

In troth, my friend Spunkie, ye'll no keep her lang.

In sorrow he look'd up, and saw her, and said
Ye're bringing me back my auld wife, I'm afraid;
But bide ye a blink, for the day is but young,

Hae ye
mended her manners, or silenced her tongue?
Her nails are grown longer, her look has grown dourer—
Alas! wha can mend her, if ye canna cure her?

Says Satan, I vow, by the edge of my knife,
I pity the man who is tied to a wife.

I swear by the kirk, and rejoice by the bell, on) bac7
That I live not in wedlock, thank Heaven! but hell:A
There hae I been dwelling the maist o' my life,
But I never could thole it if I had a wife.

Burns found this very strange, wild, and singular old song, and improved its humour, increased its wit, and printed it in the Museum: still that work claims too much when it claims it as his sole production; for the song, when divested of the poet's alterations, suffers no change in nature or in story; and no great abatement in humour. Another wild version was printed by Mr. Cromek, which had much of the original song about it. Out of these two, assisted by some fugitive copies, I have tried to make a more complete version than has hitherto appeared: I have dismissed some of the verses, and omitted the idle and unmeaning chorus, which augmented the song one half without adding one word to the story, or sharpening the wit, or pointing the humour. To soothe the antiquarian, I give a verse encumbered with all the ancient honours of the chorus:

There was an auld man was hauding his plow-
Hey! and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme;

By came the devil, says, "how d'ye do?"

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.

And can

ye labour lea, young man,

And can ye labour lea?

Gae back the gate ye came again,

Yese never scorn me.

What serves thae tresses' glossy black,
Bright brow and merry e'e-
That shapely foot and wanton leg,

Unless ye labour lea?

O can ye labour lea, young man,

Red is your cheek, and light your look,

But can ye labour lea?

O gowans grow in Feberwar,
And lilies bloom in May,
But true love is an evergreen

That lasts for ance and ay.
And can ye labour lea, young man,
And can ye labour lea?

O sweet's the drink, and soft the bed,

O' him that labours lea.

O, kissing is the key of love,

And clasping is the lock,

And making of's the best thing

That ever a lassie got.

And can ye labour lea, young man,

And can ye labour lea?

Your chin is bare, learn young, learn fair,

Sae come and labour lea.

Among the many variations of this song, some descending into grossness, others rising more into purity, but all somewhat tinctured with the freedom of olden days, it is not easy to satisfy expectation by a copy which may give the life and naïveté of all the versions. The heroine of this song is represented at a hiring-fair, discussing the qualifications of a candidate for a situation as ploughman: and as the last youth who was fee'd at Martinmas had proved unfit, the capability of the other is more anxiously inquired about. In Dumfriesshire the young men and women who wish to hire attend the fair with sprigs of broom or holly in their hat or girdle. I will not distinctly say but that to some the song conveys a different meaning than skill in ploughmanship; and this is countenanced strongly by some variations. They degenerate into vulgarity and grossness.