Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > Illustrated book of Scottish songs from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century

SONGS OE THE ArPECTIONS. 117
bard's, yet every reader of discernment will see tliey are by an inferior hand ; and
the real author of them ought neither to have given them, nor suffer 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 suQicient. Many are the instances in which our bard 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 addi-
tional 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 Eeid, but not quoted
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 skaitli ;
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.
SAE FLAXEN WERE HER RINGLETS.
BuENS. Air — " Onagh's waterfall."
Sae flaxen 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 !