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I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely;
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!

But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly,
She aye shall bliss that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinkin;
I hae been joyfu' gath'ring gear;
I hae been happy thinkin:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Tho' three times doubled fairly,

That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

The air of the "Corn-rigs," to which Burns composed song, had, in earlier times, the burthen to bear of very rude and very ridiculous verses:

There was a piper had a cow,

And he had nought to give her;
He took his pipes and play'd a spring,

And bade the cow consider:
The cow consider'd very well,

And gave the piper a penny
To play the same tune o'er again,
Corn rigs are bonnie.

The choice of the cow is very natural. The old song escaped the research of Herd, and the clutch of Johnson.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO.

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie 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 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.

Tradition has bestowed on the ancient John Anderson of Scottish song the lucrative situation of piper to the town of Kelso; no wonder, therefore, that we find him listening to the invitation of a Kelso dame to partake of a sheep's-head pie. The old verses which introduce

honest John to our notice are rude and graphic. The reformers inoculated them with a controversial and satiric meaning, and took them into the service of the kirk -see how they tear off the scarlet robes from the Roman lady.

John Anderson my jo, John,
Come in as ye come by,

And ye shall get a sheep's head
Weel baken in a pie ;
Weel baken in a pie, John,
A haggis in a pat ;
John Anderson my jo, John,

Come in and yese get that.

And how do ye do, cummer-
How have ye thriven-
And how many bairns have ye?
Quoth the cummer, seven.
Are they a' your ain gudeman's?
Quoth the cummer, na,

For five o' them were gotten

When he was far awa.

The two lawful bairns were Baptism and the Lord's Supper; the spurious progeny were Penance, Confirmation, Extreme unction, Ordination, and Marriage. Those five illegitimate bairns of the scarlet lady were all rejected by the reformers.

PEGGY ALISON.

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them;

Young kings upon their hansel throne

Are no sae blest as I am!

I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again,

An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure,
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure!

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever;
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never!

The name of Peggy Alison gives an air of truth and reality to this little warm and affectionate song, which the classical name of Chloe, Chloris, or Daphne, would fail to bestow. We imagine that the heroine has lived and breathed among us, and repaid the admiration of the poet by a smile and a salute-but we have no such lively feeling concerning the ladies of pastoral romance. The song is by Burns, and one of his early compositions.

CHEROKEE INDIAN DEATH SONG.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors; your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain ?
No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,

And the scalps which we bore from your nation away. Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;

But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I

go to the land where my father is gone: His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son.

Death comes like a friend, to relieve me from pain; And thy son, O Alknomook, has scorn'd to complain!

The original power and happy genius of this song are universally felt. The tranquil heroism, the calm endurance and dignity of nature of the son of Alknomook, take possession of our hearts: we cannot forget,

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