O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG ME.

Tune-"My wife she dang me."

I.

O ay my wife she dang me,

And aft my wife did bang me,
If ye gie a woman a' her will,

Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye.
On peace and rest my mind was bent,
And fool I was I married;

But never honest man's intent,
As cursedly miscarried.

II.

Some sairie comfort still at last,

When a' their days are done, man ;

My pains o' hell on earth are past,
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man.
O ay my wife she dang me,

And aft my wife did bang me,
If ye gie a woman a' her will,

Gude faith, she'll soon o'er-gang ye.

[Verses of an old song of the same name, and descanting on the same subject of this little humorous lyric, are still remembered in Scotland. But it is only when the wine has flowed freely and the tongue has taken out a licence that stanzas so wittily wild are repeated.-ED.]

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.

Tune-" Lass o' Livistone."

I.

Он, wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'.

II.

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare, The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there :

Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

[Burns composed this song, tradition asserts, in honour of the beauteous Mrs. Riddel: neither the song of Ramsay to the same air, beginning with

"Pained with her slighting Jamie's love,

Bell dropt a tear, Bell dropt a tear,"

nor the more ancient strain of the "Lass o' Livistone," afforded aid to the Poet in this beautiful song. There are, however, some fine snatches in the latter, but they grow like lilies amongst nettles :

"The bonnie lass o' Livistone,

Her name ye ken, her name ye ken,

And ay the welcomer ye'll be,

The farther ben, the farther ben.
And she has written in her contract
To lie her lane, to lie her lane-

To let the lassie keep her word
Wad be a shame, wad be a shame.

"The bonnie lass o' Livistone

Is fair to see, is fair to see;

With what a light look and a loup

She came to me, she came to me.

She has a black and a rolling ee,

An' a dimplit chin, an' a dimplit chin;

And no to taste her rosie lips

Wad be a sin, wad be a sin.'

Other versions of these old verses exist, but their deco

rum is inferior to their wit.-ED.]

No. L.

G. THOMSON TO BURNS.

MY DEAR SIR:

Edinburgh, 17th April, 1794.

OWING to the distress of our friend for the loss of his child, at the time of his receiving your admirable but melancholy letter, I had not an opportunity till lately of perusing it.* How sorry I am to find Burns saying, "canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?" while he is delighting others from one end of the island to the other. Like the hypochondriac who went to consult a physician upon his case-"Go," says the doctor, "and see the famous Carlini, who keeps all Paris in good humour." "Alas! Sir," replied the patient, "I am that unhappy Carlini!”

Your plan for our meeting together pleases me greatly, and I trust that by some means or other it will soon take place; but your Bacchanalian challenge almost frightens me, for I am a miserable weak drinker!

* A letter to Mr. Cunningham.

Allan is much gratified by your good opinion of his talents. He has just begun a sketch from your "Cotter's Saturday Night," and if it pleases himself in the design, he will probably etch or engrave it. In subjects of the pastoral and humorous kind, he is perhaps unrivalled by any artist living. He fails a little in giving beauty and grace to his females, and his colouring is sombre; otherwise, his paintings and drawings would be in greater request.

I like the music of the "Sutor's dochter," and will consider whether it shall be added to the last

volume; your verses to it are pretty; but your humorous English song to suit "Jo Janet," is inimitable. What think you of the air, "Within a mile of Edinburgh?" It has always struck me as a modern English imitation, but it is said to be Oswald's, and is so much liked that I believe I must include it. The verses are little better than nambypamby. Do you consider it worth a stanza or two?

[The painter who pleased Burns and Thomson so much with his shepherds and shepherdesses, was David Allan : he studied in Rome and in London, but acquired little fame from his classic efforts compared to what he achieved by his delineations of the pastoral scenes and happy peasantry of his native country. With loveliness