Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0:
Her 'prentice hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.1

August

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.

TUNE-Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly.

Burns had joined a fraternity of freemasons who met in a small public-house in the village of Torbolton. His generous and social temper disposed him to

In this song Burns made an improvement upon an ancient homely ditty to the same air. It has been pointed out that the last admirable verse is formed upon a conceit, which was put into print long before the days of Burns, in a comedy entitled Cupid's Whirligig, published in 1607. The passage in the comedy is an apostrophe to the female sex, as follows:

"Oh woman

since we

Were made before ye, should we not love and

Admire ye as the last, and therefore perfect'st work
Of Nature? Man was made when Nature was
But an apprentice, but woman when she

Was a skilful mistress of her art."

It might be presumed that Burns had no chance of seeng the old play; but it appears that the passage has been transferred into a book which was not very scarce in his time namely, The British Muse, a Collection of Thoughts, by Thomas Hayward, Gent. 4 vols. London, 1738.

VOL. I.

take a warm part in their festive proceedings; and his witty intelligent conversation made him speedily ascend to a leading-place in the lodge. Any bacchanalianism which appears in his verses was not from the heart, as his ravings on amatory subjects usually are. He was here merely the literary medium of a recognized common sentiment.

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare;
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low ;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are
here,

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;

There centum per centum, the cit with his

purse;

But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air!

There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon provèd it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter informed me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up
stairs,

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

Life's cares, they are comforts'1 a maxim

laid down

By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;

And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair; For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care.

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.

THEN fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honors masonic prepare for to throw;
May every true brother of th' compass and

square

Have a big-bellied bottle when harassed with

care!

"THOUGH CRUEL FATE SHOULD BID US PART."

The four pieces which follow are extracted from Burns's Commonplace-Book. They are inserted he

1 Young.

tween entries for May and August [1784?], but pos sibly may be the production of a period somewhat later.

THOUGH cruel Fate should bid us part,

As far's the Pole and Line,

Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.

Though mountains frown and deserts howl, And oceans roar between ;

Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,

I still would love my Jean.1

ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,

I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree-root.

Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bickered to the seas,

A cushat crooded o'er me,

That echoed through the braes.

raced

wood-pigeon

1 The allusion is to Jean Armour, afterwards the wife of the poet.

ROBIN.

TUNE- Dainty Davie.

THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth my while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';

Robin was a rovin' boy,

Rantin' rovin' Robin!

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
"Twas then a blast o' Janwar' win'

Blew handsel 1 in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof,

peeped--palm

Quo' scho, wha lives will see the proof,

goodly-fool

This waly boy will be nae coof;

I think we'll ca' him Robin.

He'll. hae misfortunes great and sma',

But aye a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit till us a';

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

A gift for a particular season, or the first money received

on any particular occasion.