PROLOGUE FOR MR SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT-NIGHT,

DUMFRIES.

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
How this new play and that new sang is comin'?
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported?
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?

For comedy abroad he needna toil,

A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece
To gather matter for a serious piece;

There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
Would shew the tragic Muse in a' her glory.

Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell?
Where are the Muses fled that could produce
A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce;

How here, even here, he first unsheathed the sword
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord;
And after monie a bloody, deathless doing,
Wrenched his dear country from the jaws of ruin?
O for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene,

To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen!
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad rebellion's arms.
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman,
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman:

A woman-though the phrase may seem uncivil-
As able and as cruel as the devil!

One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page,
But Douglasses were heroes every age:
And though your fathers, prodigal of life,
A Douglas followed to the martial strife,
Perhaps if bowls row right, and Right succeeds,
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads!
As ye hae generous done, if a' the land
Would take the Muses' servants by the hand;
Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them,

And where ye justly can commend, commend them;
And aiblins when they winna stand the test,
Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their best!
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution

Ye'll soon hae pocts o' the Scottish nation,

Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack,
And warsle Time, and lay him on his back!
For us and for our stage should ony spier,
'Wha's aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?'
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow,
We have the honour to belong to you!
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like,
But like guid mithers, shore before you strike.
And gratefu' still I hope ye 'll ever find us,
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness
We've got fiae a' professions, sets, and ranks:

God help us! we're but poor-ye'se get but thanks.

strive with

ask

men

children

threaten

The third volume of the Scots Musical Museum had been going on, somewhat more slowly than the second, but with an equal amount of assistance from Burns. Besides the songs already cited since the date of the second volume, he contributed many which, as they bore no particular reference to his own history, nor any other trait by which the exact date of their composition could be ascertained, are here presented in one group. Several of them are, however, only old songs mended or extended by Burns.

TIBBIE DUNBAR.
TUNE-Johnny M'Gill.

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?
Wilt thou ride on a horse or be drawn in a car,
Or walk by my side, sweet Tibbie Dunbar?

I carena thy daddie, his lands and his money,
I carena thy kin, sae high and sae lordly;
But say thou wilt hae me, for better for waur,
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar!

THE GARDENER Wr' HIS PAIDLE.

TUNE-The Gardeners' March.

[It will be found that Burns subsequently produced a new version of this song, changing the burden at the close of the stanzas.]

When rosy Morn comes in wi' showers,

To deck her gay green birken-bowers,

Then busy, busy are his hours,

The gardener wi' his paidle.

The crystal waters gently fa',
The merry birds are lovers a',
The scented breezes round him blaw,
The gardener wi' his paidle.

When purple Morning starts the hare,
To steal upon her early fare,

Then through the dews he maun repair,
The gardener wi' his paidle.

When Day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws of Nature's rest,
He flies to her arms he lo'es the best,
The gardener wi' his paidle.

HIGHLAND HARRY.

[Of this song Burns says: The chorus I picked up from an old woman in Dunblane; the rest of the song is mine.' It is evident that the poet has understood the chorus in a Jacobite sense, and written his own verses in that strain accordingly. Mr Peter Buchan has, nevertheless, ascertained that the original song related to a love attachment between Harry Lumsdale, the second son of a Highland gentleman, and Miss Jeanie Gordon, daughter to the Laird of Knockespock, in Aberdeenshire. The lady was married to her cousin, Habichie Gordon, a son of the Laird of Rhynie; and some time after, her former lover having met her and shaken her hand, her husband drew his sword in anger, and lopped off several of Lumsdale's fingers, which Highland Harry took so much to heart that he soon after died.— See Hogg and Motherwell's edition of Burns, ii. 197.]

My Harry was a gallant gay,

Fu' stately strode he on the plain :
But now he's banished far away;
I'll never see him back again.
O for him back again!

O for him back again!
I wad gie a' Knockhaspie's land
For Highland Harry back again.

When a' the lave gae to their bed,
I wander dowie up the glen;
I set me down and greet my fill,
And aye I wish him back again.

O were some villains hangit high,
And ilka body had their ain!
Then I might see the joyfu' sight,
My Highland Harry back again.

rest

sad

cry

BONN Y AN N.

AIR-Ye Gallants Bright.

['I composed this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the author of the air "Strathallan's Lament," and two or three others in this work.'—Burns. Miss Masterton afterwards became Mrs Derbishire, and was living in London in 1834.]

Ye gallants bright, I rede ye right,
Beware o' bonny Ann;

Her comely face sae fu' o' grace,

Your heart she will trepan.

Her een sae bright, like stars by night,
Her skin is like the swan;
Sae jimply laced her genty waist,
That sweetly ye might span.

Youth, Grace, and Love, attendant move,
And Pleasure leads the van:

In a' their charms and conquering arms
They wait on bonny Ann.

The captive bands may chain the hands,
But love enslaves the man;
Ye gallants braw, I rede you a',
Beware o' bonny Ann!

TUNE-John Anderson my Jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonny brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we 'll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo.

THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR.'

TUNE-Cameronian Rant.

[In this instance Burns has concentrated in his own language a more diffuse song on the same subject, which is understood to have been the composition of Mr Barclay, a Berean minister of some note about the middle of the last century, uncle to the distinguished anatomist of the same name.]

'O cam ye here the fight to shun,
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
And did the battle see, man?'
'I saw the battle, sair and tough,
And reekin' red ran monie a sheugh;
My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,

Wha glaumed at kingdoms three, man.

"The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
To meet them were na slaw, man;

They rushed and pushed, and bluid outgushed,

And monie a bouk did fa', man:

The great Argyle led on his files,

I wat they glanced for twenty miles:

channel

sigh

knocks

clothes

grasped

corpse

They hacked and hashed, while broadswords clashed,
And through they dashed, and hewed, and smashed,
Till fey men died awa', man.

predestined

'But had you seen the philabegs,

And skyrin tartan trews, man;

shining

When in the teeth they dared our Whigs,

And covenant true-blues, man;

In lines extended lang and large,
When bayonets opposed the targe,
And thousands hastened to the charge,
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath,

They fled like frighted doos, man.'

1This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787.'-Currie. Gilbert Burns entertained a doubt if the song was by his brother; but for this we can see no just grounds.