III.

I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool,
And a' the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.

IV.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
And ye sall be my dearie.

V.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may rowe me in your plaid,
And I sall be your dearie.

VI.

While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
'Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.

Ca' the ewes to the knowes,

Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie!

Much of this sweet pastoral is old; Burns made several changes and emendations in the ancient words, and added the concluding lines. An old verse or so will show the nature of the Poet's alterations :

"Yon yowes an' lambs upo' the plain,

Wi' a' the gear my dad did hain,

I'se gie thee if thou'lt be my ain,
My bonnie dearie.

"Come weal, come woe, whate'er betide,
Gin ye'll be true, I'se be your bride,
And ye sall row me in your plaid,
My winsome dearie."

The Poet afterwards mused upon the same subject and air, and produced a pastoral lyric more worthy of his fame than this pieced and patched composition. The scene of the new song is laid in Clouden side, nigh the ruined towers: the flowers and the hazels which flouIrish in the verse are to be found on the banks of the stream; and all the singer has to do is to add the figure of some one dear to him, and the picture of the Poet is completed.

MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE.

Tune-" Lord Breadalbane's March."

I.

O MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle, And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon ; merry hae I been cloutin a kettle,

And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. O a' the lang day I ca' at my hammer,

An' a' the lang day I whistle and sing, A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, An' a' the lang night as happy's a king.

II.

Bitter in dool I lickit my winnins,

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave: Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linnens, And blythe be the bird that sings on her grave.

Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie,

An' come to my arms and kiss me again! Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie !

And blest be the day I did it again.

Flax-dressing is a dusty business, nor did the Poet love it much, for he but twice alludes to it in his poetry. In his letter to Parker, he says of taste in Nithsdale,

"Here words ne'er crost the muses' heckles,

Nor limpit in poetic shackles."

In the song before us he goes no deeper into the mystery. It is put into the mouth of a travelling tinker, whose craft extended to the repairing of pots and pans, clasping of china, making of spoons, and the teething of heckles. The flax-dresser, as he pulls the head or handful of lint across the steel prongs, is apt, if he pulls rashly, to break some of the teeth, which are made of sheer steel. To restore these is to teeth a heckle. Songs peculiar to the tinkers and gipsies are not uncommon in Scotland -a verse or so of one of these rough chants may amuse the reader :

"O haste ye an' come to our gate-en,

And souther the stroup o' my lady's pan;
For my lord's awa to hunt the doe,
Quo' the winsome lass o' Gallowa'.

"Now wad ye but leave your gay ladie,
And carry the tinkling tools wi' me,
And lie at e'en on clean ait straw,
My winsome lass o' Gallowa'.

"The fingers which starch my ladies frills,

Fu' ill could carry your tinkling tools,

And your pingles wad grime my neck o' snaw-
Quo' the winsome lass o' Gallowa'.

"Her hair in hanks o' gowden thread,

O'er her milk-white shoulder was loosely shed,
And her blythe blue een blinked love an' a',
My winsome lass o' Gallowa'."

THE BRAES O' BALLOCHMYLE.

Tune-" The Braes o' Ballochmyle."

I.

THE Catrine woods were yellow seen,
The flowers decay'd on Catrine lea,
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green,

But nature sicken'd on the e'e.
Thro' faded groves Maria sang,
Hersel in beauty's bloom the while,
And
ay the wild-wood echoes rang,
Fareweel the Braes o' Ballochmyle!

II.

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers,
Again ye 'll flourish fresh and fair;
Ye birdies dumb, in with'ring bowers,
'll charm the vocal air.

Again ye

But here, alas! for me nae mair

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile;

Fareweel the bonnie banks of Ayr,

Fareweel, fareweel! sweet Ballochmyle!