ws her foggy shroud o'er yon burn side;
Far frae the noisy scene,
I 'll through the fields alane,
There we 'll meet, my ain dear Jean, down by yon burn side.

[80] The poet and one of his particular friends, Charles Marshall (whose
son, the Rev. Charles Marshall, of Dunfermline, is author of a
respectable volume, entitled "Lays and Lectures"), had met one evening
in a tavern, kept by Tom Buchanan, near the cross of Paisley. The
evening was enlivened by song-singing; and the landlord, who was
present, sung the old song, beginning, "There grows a bonny brier-bush,"
which he did with effect. On their way home together, Marshall remarked
that the words of the landlord's song were vastly inferior to the tune,
and humorously suggested the following burlesque parody of the first
stanza:--

"There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard,
There 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard,
They were set by Charlie Marshall,
And pu'd by Nannie Laird,
Yet there 's mony a dainty cabbage-stock in our kail-yard."

He added that Tannahill would do well to compose suitable words for the
music. The hint sufficed; the friends met after a fortnight's interval,
when the poet produced and read the song of "Yon burn side." It
immediately became popular. Marshall used to relate this anecdote with
much feeling. He died in March 1851, at the age of fourscore.

THE BRAES O' GLENIFFER.[81]

AIR--_"Bonny Dundee."_

Keen blaws the wind o'er the braes o' Gleniffer,
The auld castle's turrets are cover'd wi' snaw;
How changed frae the time when I met wi' my lover,
Amang the broom bushes by Stanley-green shaw:
The wild flowers o' summer were spread a' sae bonnie,
The mavis sang sweet frae the green birken tree;
But far to the camp they hae march'd my dear Johnnie,
And now it is winter wi' nature and me.

Then ilk thing around us was blythesome and cheery,
Then ilk thing around us was bonny and braw;
Now naething is heard but the wind whistling dreary,
And naething is seen but the wide-spreading snaw.
The trees are a' bare, and the birds mute and dowie,
They shake the cauld drift frae their wings as they flee,
And chirp out their plaints, seeming wae for my Johnnie,
'Tis winter wi' them, and 'tis winter wi' me.

Yon cauld sleety cloud skiffs alang the bleak mountain,
And shak