rank secured the goodwill of Burns, he was
sure to compliment her in verse, and it was always by putting her into
the light of an adored mistress. In his latter days, when declining in
health, an amiable young girl, sister of one of his brother officers,
obtained his friendly regard by endeavouring to lighten the labours of
housekeeping to his wife, then also in a delicate state. The lady, who
still lives, 'relates that, one morning she had a call from the poet,
when he offered, if she would play him any tune of which she was fond,
and for which she desired new verses, to gratify her in her wish to
the best of his ability. She placed herself at the pianoforte, and
played over several times the air of an old song beginning with the
words--

The robin cam to the wren's nest,
And keekit in, and keekit in:
O weel's me on your auld pow!
Wad ye be in, wad ye be in?
Ye'se ne'er get leave to lie without,
And I within, and I within,
As lang's I hae an auld clout,
To row ye in, to row ye in.

'As soon as his ear got accustomed to the melody, Burns sat down, and
in a very few minutes he produced the beautiful song:

OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.

Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
Or did misfortune's bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a', to share it a'.

Or were I in the wildest waste,
Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
The desert were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there:
Or were I monarch o' the globe,
Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
The brightest jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.

'The anecdote is a trivial one in itself; but we feel that the
circumstances--the deadly illness of the poet, the beneficent worth of
Miss Lewars, and the reasons for his grateful desire of obliging
her--give it a value. It is curious, and something more, to connect it
with the subsequent musical fate of the song, for many years after,
when Burns had become a star in memory's galaxy, and Jessy Lewars was
spending her quiet years of widowhood over her book or her knitting in
a little parlour in Maxwelltown, the verses attracted the regard of
Felix Mendelssohn, who seems to have divined the peculiar feeling
beyond all