YE JACOBITES BY NAME.

Tune-" Ye Jacobites by name."

I.

YE jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear;
Ye jacobites by name, give an ear;

Ye jacobites by name,

Your fautes I will proclaim,

Your doctrines I maun blame

You shall hear.

II.

What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law?

What is right and what is wrang by the law?
What is right and what is wrang?

A short sword and a lang,

A weak arm, and a strang

For to draw.

III.

What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar?

What makes heroic strife fam'd afar?

What makes heroic strife?

To whet th' assassin's knife,

Or hunt a parent's life

Wi' bluidie war.

Then let

IV.

your schemes alone, in the state, in the state; Then let your schemes alone in the state;

Then let your schemes alone,

Adore the rising sun,

And leave a man undone

To his fate.

Burns founded this song on some old verses, in which it was intimated that the extinction of the House of Stuart was sought for by other weapons than the sword. It cannot be denied that if the House of Hanover had the affection of the people and the law of the land on their side, that the exiled princes had the best poetry. This may be accounted for: the romantic adventures, daring exploits, and deep sufferings of Prince Charles, enlisted sympathy on his side; and the minstrels, regarding his fate and that of his brave companions as furnishing matter for poetry only, sung with a pathos and a force which will likely be long remembered. It would seem by the last verse that Burns looked upon the cause as hopeless.

The air is very popular, and has been compelled to bear the burthen of much indifferent verse. The muse of a schoolmaster in Galloway, when Paul Jones made a descent on the coast, raised her voice and sung :

"You have heard of John Paul Jones, have you not, have you not, You have heard of John Paul Jones, have you not?"

And Hector Macniell chanted :

"My love's in Germanie, send him hame, send him hame;

My love's in Germanie, send him hame;

My love's in Germanie,

Fighting for loyaltie,

He may ne'er his Jeanie see

Send him hame."

THE BANKS OF DOON.

FIRST VERSION.

I.

YE flowery banks o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care!

II.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause luve was true.

III.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird,

That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I

sang,

And wist na o' my fate.

IV.

Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon,

To see the woodbine twine,

And ilka bird sang o' its love;

And sae did I o' mine.

V.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

The late Robert Cromek, who, without being either painter or poet, had a fine taste in poetry and art, found this version among the letters of the Poet, and admitted it into the Reliques. Whenever the genius of Burns was a topic of conversation, he loved to descant on the exquisite simplicity and force of his sentiments and language, and generally instanced the last two verses of the first copy of the "Banks of Doon" as a fine specimen of his natural powers. In this he differed from the author of a criticism in Cumberland's Review, who made the world stare by affirming that Burns was rather a namby-pamby sort of versifier, and instancing the song of the " Banks and Braes of Bonnie Doon" as a specimen of his weakness. Perhaps the Bard of Ayr has sinned less that way than any other poet in our isle; he is, in truth, all vigour and manliness: but simplicity is sometimes mistaken for weakness, and calmness for coldness; while a "double-double-toil-and-trouble" of words is looked upon as something muscular and forcible. Simplicity is the last attainment generally, when it should be the first, both in art and literature.

THE BANKS O' DOON.

SECOND VERSION.

Tune-" Caledonian Hunt's Delight."

I.

YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair;
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,
That wantons thro' the flowering thorn:
Thou minds me o' departed joys,

Departed-never to return!

To see the rose and woodbine twine;

And ilka bird sang o' its luve,

And fondly sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,

But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.