CALEDONIA.

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green brekan,

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.

Though rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave;
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud
palace,

What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave! The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain;

He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save Love's willing fetters, the chains o' his Jean.

Love of country and domestic affection have combined to endear this song to every bosom. The charms of the poet's Jean, and his love for old Scotland, contend for mastery; and we can hardly conclude which of them Burns admires most. It was written in honour of Mrs. Burns.

BONNIE JEAN.

There was a lass, and she was fair,
At kirk and market to be seen;
When a' the fairest maids were met,
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean.
And aye she wrought her mammie's wark,
And aye she sang sae merrilie :
The blithest bird upon the bush
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob the tender joys
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ;
And frost will blight the fairest flowers,
And love will break the soundest rest.
Young Robie was the brawest lad,

The flower and pride of a' the glen;
And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,

And wanton naigies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryste,

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stown.

As in the bosom o' the stream

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en, So trembling, pure, was tender love

Within the breast o' bonnie Jean.

And now she works her mammie's wark,
And ay she sighs wi' care and pain;
Yet wistna what her ail might be,

Or what wad make her weel again.
But didna Jeanie's heart loup light,
And didna joy blink in her e'e,
As Robie tauld a tale o' love,
Ae e'enin' on the lily lea?

The sun was sinking in the west,
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;
His cheek to her's he fondly prest,
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love:
O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me?
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot,
And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge,
Or naething else to trouble thee;
But stray amang the heather-bells,

And tent the waving corn wi' me.
Now what could artless Jeanie do?
She had nae will to say him na:
At length she blush'd a sweet consent,

And love was ay between them twa.

Burns was one of those poets who imagined it was necessary to have a visible and living image of female loveliness before him, to supply him with the glowing

colours and fascinating forms of lyric composition. The heroine of this song was, in 1793, a young and lovely lady, Miss Macmurdo of Drumlanrig, now Mrs. Crawford. The poet was a welcome visitant at her father's house. He painted her in the dress and character of a cottager; and this has induced many people to believe that he was the hero himself, and his wife the heroine. It was from Mrs. Burns's voice that the fine air of the song was noted down.

WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR?

Wha is that at my bower door?

O wha is it but Findlay?

Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here!
Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay.
What make ye here sae like a thief?
O come and see, quo' Findlay-
Before the morn ye'll work mischief!-
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Gif I rise and let you in

Let me in, quo' Findlay

Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

In

my bower if ye

should stay

Let me stay, quo' Findlay

I fear ye'll bide till break o' day!—
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Here this night if ye remain-
I'll remain, quo' Findlay-

I dread ye'll learn the gate again!-
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

What may pass

within this bower

Let it pass, quo' Findlay—

Ye maun conceal till your last hour!—
Indeed will I, quo' Findlay.

Mr. Cromek was assured by Gilbert Burns, that "Wha's that at my bower door" was suggested early in life to his brother's fancy by the song of " Widow, are ye waukin," in Ramsay's collection. That clever old lyric was frequently sung to the poet in his youth by Jean Wilson, a widow of Tarbolton, remarkable for simplicity and naïveté of character, and for singing curious old-world songs. She had outlived all her children, yet when she performed domestic worship, she still imagined them all around her, and gave out each line of the psalm with an audible voice, as though she had an audience.