For though the night were ne’er sae dark,
      And I were ne’er sae weary, O! 
    I’d meet thee on the lea rig,
      My ain kind dearie, O! 
    While in this weary world of wae,
      This wilderness sae dreary, O! 
    What makes me blythe, and keeps me sae? 
      ’Tis thee, my kind dearie, O!

[35] The two first stanzas of this song are the composition of the gifted and unfortunate Robert Fergusson.  It is founded on an older ditty, beginning, “I’ll rowe thee o’er the lea-rig.”  See Johnson’s “Musical Museum,” vol. iv. p. 53.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO.[36]

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      I wonder what ye mean,
    To rise sae early in the morn,
      And sit sae 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 masterpiece was man;
    And you amang them a’, John,
      Sae trig frae tap to toe—­
    She proved to be nae journeyman,
      John Anderson, my jo.

    John Anderson, my jo, John,
      Ye were my first conceit;
    And ye needna think it strange, John,
      That I ca’ ye trim and neat;
    Though some folks say ye ’re auld, John,
      I never think ye so;
    But I think ye ’re aye 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.

[36] These stanzas are in continuation of Burns’s song, “John Anderson, my jo.”  Five other stanzas have been added to the continuation by some unknown hand, which will be found in the “Book of Scottish Song,” p. 54.  Glasgow, 1853.

FAIR, MODEST FLOWER.

TUNE—­"Ye Banks and Braes o’ bonnie Doon."

    Fair, modest flower, of matchless worth! 
      Thou sweet, enticing, bonny gem;
    Blest is the soil that gave thee birth,
      And bless’d thine honour’d parent stem. 
    But doubly bless’d shall be the youth
      To whom thy heaving bosom warms;
    Possess’d of beauty, love, and truth,
      He ’ll clasp an angel in his arms.

    Though storms of life were blowing snell,
      And on his brow sat brooding care,
    Thy seraph smile would quick dispel
      The darkest gloom of black despair. 
    Sure Heaven hath granted thee to us,
      And chose thee from the dwellers there;
    And sent thee from celestial bliss,
      To shew what all the virtues are.