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“O I’m wat, wat,
O I’m wat and weary;
Yet fain wad I rise and rin,
If I thocht I would meet my dearie.
Aye waukin’, O!
Waukin’ aye, and weary;
Sleep, I can get nane
For thinkin’ o’ my dearie.

Simmer’s a pleasant time,
Flowers o’ every color;
The winter rins ower the heugh,
And I long for my true lover.

When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I’m eerie,
Sleep I can get nane,
For thinkin’ o’ my dearie.

Lanely nicht comes on,
A’ the lave are sleepin’;
I think on my true love,
And blear my e’en wi’ greetin’.

Feather beds are saft–
Pentit rooms are bonnie;
But ae kiss o’ my dear love
Better’s far than ony.

O for Friday nicht!–
Friday at the gloamin’;
O for Friday nicht–
Friday’s lang o’ comin’!”

This love-song, which Mr. Chambers gives from recitation, is, thinks Uncle to himself, all but perfect; Burns, who in almost every instance, not only adorned, but transformed and purified whatever of the old he touched, breathing into it his own tenderness and strength, fails here, as may be seen in reading his version.

“Oh, spring’s a pleasant time!
Flowers o’ every color–
The sweet bird builds her nest,
And I lang for my lover.
Aye wakin’, oh!
Wakin’ aye and wearie;
Sleep I can get nane,
For thinkin’ o’ my dearie!

“When I sleep I dream,
When I wauk I’m eerie,
Rest I canna get,
For thinkin’ o’ my dearie.
Aye wakin’, oh!
Wakin’ aye and weary;
Come, come, blissful dream,
Bring me to my dearie.

“Darksome nicht comes doun–
A’ the lave are sleepin’;
I think on my kind lad,
And blin’ my een wi’ greetin’.
Aye wakin’, oh!
Wakin’ aye and wearie;
Hope is sweet, but ne’er
Sae sweet as my dearie!”

How weak these italics! No one can doubt which of these is the better. The old song is perfect in the procession, and in the simple beauty of its thoughts and words. A ploughman or shepherd–for I hold that it is a man’s song–comes in “wat, wat” after a hard day’s work among the furrows, or on the hill. The watness of wat, wat, is as much wetter than wet as a Scotch mist is more of a mist than an English one; and he is not only wat, wat, but “weary,” longing for a dry skin and a warm bed and rest; but no sooner said and felt, than, by the law of contrast, he thinks on “Mysie” or “Ailie,” his Genevieve; and then “all thoughts, all passions, all delights,” begin to stir him, and “fain wad I rise and rin” (what a swiftness beyond run is “rin”!) Love now makes him a poet; the true imaginative power enters and takes possession of him. By this time his clothes are off, and he is snug in bed; not a wink can he sleep; that “fain” is domineering over him,–and he breaks out into what is as genuine passion and poetry, as anything from Sappho to Tennyson–abrupt, vivid, heedless of syntax. “Simmer’s a pleasant time.” Would any of our greatest geniuses, being limited to one word, have done better than take “pleasant?” and then the fine vagueness of “time!” “Flowers o’ every color;” he gets a glimpse of “herself a fairer flower,” and is off in pursuit. “The water rins ower the heugh” (a steep precipice); flinging itself wildly, passionately over, and so do I long for my true lover. Nothing can be simpler and finer than

“When I sleep, I dream;
When I wauk, I’m eerie.”

“Lanely nicht;” how much richer and touching than “darksome.” “Feather beds are saft;” “paintit rooms are bonnie;” I would infer from this, that his “dearie,” his “true love,” was a lass up at “the big house”–a dapper Abigail possibly–at Sir William’s at the Castle, and then we have the final paroxysm upon Friday nicht–Friday at the gloamin’! O for Friday nicht!–Friday’s lang o’ comin’!–it being very likely Thursday before daybreak, when this affectionate ululatus ended in repose.