O, had she been a country maid,
And I the happy country swain,
Though shelter'd in the lowliest shed
That ever rose in Scotland's plain!
Through weary winter's wind and rain,
With joy, with rapture, I would toil;
And nightly to my bosom strain
The bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep,
Where fame and honours lofty shine;
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep,
Or downward seek the Indian mine:

Give me the cot below the pine,

To tend the flocks or till the soil,

And every day have joys divine

With the bonny lass o' Ballochmyle.

The lady, in whose praise this fine song was written, was Miss Alexander of Ballochmyle, in Ayrshire. Burns, during one of his fits of solitary musing on the banks of his native stream, met with this west-country beauty among the woods, and her charms occasioned the song, which he enclosed to her in a letter written with much romantic respect and delicacy. The lass of Ballochmyle, like many other maidens on whom the folly of poets has lavished lasting verse, was cold or insensible, and Burns had not the fortitude to be silent-he complained of her neglect. Dr. Currie excuses the lady with singular infelicity: "Her modesty might prevent

her from perceiving that the muse of Tibullus breathed in this nameless poet." I hope Miss Alexander listened to the doctor's defence as she did to the poet's strains, with "silent modesty and dignified reserve."

THE STOWN GLANCE O' KINDNESS.

'Twasna her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin; Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing;

'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness.

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me,
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me;
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever,
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever.

Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest,
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest!
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter—
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter!

To a lady with blue eyes and flaxen ringlets, Burns seems largely indebted for his inspiration in song; and I am afraid that the poet persisted in pouring out his praise long after the lady had no other charm than personal attractions left. One of the flaxen-tressed heroines of Burns contrived to cast suspicion upon her chastity

before her beauty was well budded:-but it would be discourteous to insist upon purity with a lady who had the weakness, or the boldness, never to care any thing for a virtue so sensitive and troublesome.

BONNIE LESLEY.

O saw ye bonnie Lesley,

As she gaed o'er the border?
She's gane, like Alexander,

To spread her conquests further.

To see her is to love her,

And love but her for ever;

For nature made her what she is,
And never made anither!

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
Thy subjects we before thee;
Thou art divine, fair Lesley,

The hearts o' men adore thee.
The deil he cou'd na scaith thee,
Or aught that wad belang thee,
He'd look into thy bonnie face,
And say, I canna wrang thee!

The powers aboon will tent thee;
Misfortune sha'na steer thee;

Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
Return again, fair Lesley,

Return to Caledonie !

That we may brag, we hae a lass

There's nane again so bonnie.

Mr. Thomson sought to stay the march of "Macedonia's madman" into the region of Scottish song, but Burns was unexpectedly obstinate, and Alexander keeps his place; though all who sing the song must wonder what he is doing there. The heroine, Miss Lesley Baillie of Ayrshire, now Mrs. Cuming of Logie, was on her way to England through Dumfries; Burns accompanied her towards the border, and on his way home made this song in her honour, and an exquisite song it is. The poet believed that he had parodied an old song, beginning with

My bonnie Lizie Bailie,

I'll rowe thee in my plaidie;

but the resemblance exists only in the first verse, and in the bard's imagination. It was to such casual inspirations that we owe many of his finest songs.

GUDEWIFE, COUNT THE LAWIN.

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night,
But we'll ne'er stray for faut o' light,
For ale and brandy's stars and moon,
And blude-red wine's the rising sun.
Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin;

Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
And bring a coggie mair.

There's wealth and ease for gentlemen,
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen;
But here we're a' in ae accord,

For ilka man that's drunk's a lord.

My coggie is a haly pool,

That heals the wounds o' care and dool;

And pleasure is a wanton trout

An' ye drink but deep, ye'll find him out.

Then, gudewife, count the lawin,
The lawin, the lawin;

Then, gudewife, count the lawin,

And bring a coggie mair.

Good drinking songs are few in number; and England, with all her admiration of her brown ale and her