John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony 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. In the first volume of a collection, entitled “Poetry, Original and Selected," printed in penny numbers by Brash and Reid, booksellers of Glasgow, between the years 1795 and 1798, this song is given as follows:

John Anderson my jo, John, I wonder what you mean,
To rise so soon in the morning, and sit up so late at e'en;
Ye'll blear out a' your een, John, and why should you do so?
Gang sooner to your bed at e'en, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, when Nature first began
To try her canny hand, John, her masterwork was ma' ;
And you amang them a', John, sae trig frae tap to toe,
She proved to be nae journey-work, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, ye were my first conceit,
And ye maunna think it strange, John, though I ca' ye trim and neat;
Though some folk think ye're auld, John, I never think ye so,
But I think ye're a' the same to me, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, we've seen our bairns' bairns;
And yet, my dear John Anderson, I'm happy in your arms;
And sae are ye in mine, John,-I'm sure ye'll ne'er say no,
Though the days are gane that we have seen, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, what pleasure does it gie
To see sae mony sprouts, John, spring up 'tween you and me!
And ilka lad and lass, John, in our footsteps to go,
Makes perfect heaven here on earth, John Anderson my !0.
John Anderson my jo, John, when we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven, your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your head's turn'd bauld, John, your locks are like the snart
Yet blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, frae year to year we've pass'd,
And soon that year maun come, John, will bring us to our last;
But let na' that affright us, John, our hearts were ne'er our foe,
While in innocent delight we lived, John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John, we clamb the hill thegither,
And mony a canty day, John, we've had wi' ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John, but hand in hand we'll go,

And we'll sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. “The stanza," says Dr. Currie, “with which this song, inserted by Brash and Reid, begins, is the chorus of the old song under this title; and though perfectly suitable to that wicked but witty ballad, it has no accordance with the strain of delicate and tender sentiment of this improved song. In regard to the five other additional stanzas, though they are in the spirit of the two that are unquestionably our

bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see they are by an inferior hand; and the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffered them to be given to the world, as the production of Burns. If there were no other mark of their spurious origin, the latter half of the third line in the seventh stanza, - our hearts were ne'er our foe,'-would be proof sufficient. Many are the instances in which our hard has adopted defective rhymes ; but a single instance cannot be produced in which, to preserve the rhyme, he has given a feeble thought in false grammar. These additional stanzas are not, however, without merit, and they may serve to prolong the pleasure which every person of taste must feel from listening to a most happy union of beautiful music with moral sentiments that are singularly interesting."

The following three stanzas were published by Brash and Reid, but not quotell by Dr. Currie. The idea is the same as that expressed by Burns, but has not the masterly expression he gave to it.

John Anderson my jo, John,

Our siller ne'er was rife,
And yet we ne'er saw poverty

Sin' we were man and wife:
We've aye haen bit and brat, John,

Great blessings here below,
And that helps to keep peace at hame,

John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,

The world lo'es us baith;
We ne'er spak' ill o'neibours, John,

Nor did them ony skaith;
To live in peace and quietness

Was a' our care, ye know;
And I'm sure they'll greet when we are dead,

John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,

And when the time is come,
That we, like ither auld folk, John,

Maun sink into the tomb;
A motto we will hae, my John,

To let the world know
We happy lived, contented died,

John Anderson my jo.


BURNS. Air"Onagh's waterfall."
SAE flaxer. were her ringlets,

Her eyebrows of a darker hue
Bewitchingly o'erarching

Twa laughing een o' bonnie blue.
Her smiling sae wyling

Wad make a wretch forget his woe;
What pleasure, what treasure,

Unto these rosy lips to grow!

Such was my Chloris' bonnie face

When first her bonnie face I saw ;
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm,-

She says she lo'es me best of a'.
Like harmony her motion ;

Her pretty ancle is a spy
Betraying fair proportion

Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sae charming,

Her faultless form and gracefu' air ;
Ilk feature-auld Nature

Declared that she could do nae mair.
Hers are the willing chains o' love,

By conquering beauty's sovereign law;
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm;-

She says she lo’es me best of a'.
Let others love the city,

And gaudy show at sunay noon ;
Gie me the lonely valley,

The dewy eve, and rising moon
Fair beaming, and streaming

Her silver light the boughs amang ;
While falling, recalling,

The amorous thrush concludes his sang;
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove

By whimpling burn and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,

And say thou lo'e me best of a'? Burns's songs were not all adapted to Scottish, but some few of them to Irish and to English melodies. Do you know," he says, in a letter to Thomson, "a blackguard Irish song called 'Onagh's waterfall ?' The air is charming, and I have often regretted the want of decent verses to it. It is too much, at least for my humble rustic Muse, to expect that every effort of hers shall have merit; still I think that it is better to have mediocre verses to a favourite air than none at all."

DINNA ASK ME GIN I LUVE THEE. From the “Minstrelsy of the North of Scotland," collected by Peter Buchan.

DINNA ask me gin I luve thee,

Deed I darena tell ;
Dinna ask me gin I luve thee,

Ask it o' yoursel'.


When ye come to yon town end

Full mony a lass ye'll see
Dinna, dinna look at them,
For fear mindna me.

Dinna ask me, &c.
Oh, dinna look at me sa aft,

Sae well as ye may trow;
For when ye look at me sae aft,
I canna look at you.

Dinna ask me, &c.
Little ken


Will say they fancy thee;
But only keep you, mind, to them
That fancy nane but thee.

Dinna ask me, &c.

mony ane


From a manuscript collection of the “Northern Scottish Minstrelsy,"

by Peter Buchan.
WILL ye gae, my bonny May;

Will ye gae, my bonny bridie;
Will ye gae, my bonny May,

An' breast the braes o' Delvin sidie ?
Where got ye that bonny May;

Where got ye that bonny bridie?
I got her down by Buchan's how,

An' brought her up to Delvin sidie,
Can ye play me Delvin side;

Can ye play me Delvin diddle ?
Oh, play me up sweet Delvin side,

Or else I swear I'll brak your-fiddle.
I can play ye Delvin side,

I can play ye Delvin diddle,
I can play ye Delvin side ;

My bowstring's sweet, an' sweet's my fiddle. This composition is of no merit, but is given, with others from Mr. Buchan's collection, as a specimen of the songs that continue to be popular arnong the peasantry, notwithstanding all that was done by Burns and others to introduce a higher style, and better taste among them.


DR. Joux LEYDEN, died 1811.

How sweet thy modest light to view,

Fair star! to love and lovers dear; While trembling on the falling dew,

Like beauty shining through the tear ;

Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream

To mark each image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam

To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though, blazing o'er the arch of night,

The moon thy timid beams outshine As far as thine each starry light

Her rays can never vie with thine.

Thine are the soft enchanting hours

When twilight lingers on the plain, And whispers to the closing flow'rs,

That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland

As music, wafts the lover's sigh ; And bids the yielding heart expand

In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doomed to prove

That rapture's tears are mixed with pain Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love,

But sweeter to be loved again.

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